UCSB    LIBRARY 


<__ 


POEMS 


JAMES    BROWN    KENDALL 


FRAMINGHAM 
1878 


J.  C.  CLARK,  PRINTER,  SO.   KRAMINGHAM,  MASS. 


THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME  IS  LOVINGLY  DEDICATED 

TO  MY  FATHER, 

FOR  WHOM  THESE  POEMS  ARE  NOW  PRINTED,  THAT  AS  HIS  YEARS  INCREASE 

AND  HIS  SIGHT  GROWS  DIM,   HE   MAY   MORE    EASILY   READ   AND 

ENJOY  THE  VERSES  OF  THE  SON  HE  SO  DEARLY  LOVED. 

E.   M.   K, 


IN  MEMORY  OF  J.  B.  K. 

CLASS  OF   1854. 

IX  the  low  land  seen  only  by  the  skies 
And  birds  and  aged  oaks  and  silent  leaves, 
Beyond  the  grass-grown  road  a  graveyard  lies, 
Still  and  serene  as  hours  that  Summer  weaves. 

There  no  wild  wind  doth  ever  rudely  pass, 
But  blends  the  treetops  in  a  loving  strife, 

And  makes  a  low,  sweet  music  in  the  grass, 
And  wafts  the  happy  dead  to  newer  life. 

The  peaceful  dead  sleep  in  the  peaceful  field, 
Year  after  year  adds  solemn,  slow  increase 

Of  such  as  unto  Christ  in  death  are  sealed ; 
Spring  knits  the  turf  again,  and  all  is  peace. 

There  sleep,  thou  tender  spirit,  sweetly  sleep, 
Dreaming  of  all  the  love  that  yearns  for  thee ; 

And  I  will  dream  that  I  no  longer  weep, 
And  all  the  night  thy  form  shall  visit  me. 

So  sleep  in  peaceful  rest ;  and  lightly  lie 

The  mingl'd  flowers  and  earth  upon  thy  head  ; 


6  IN    MEMORY    OF    J.    B.    K. 

No  cloud  shall  cross  thy  small,  blue  cope  of  sky, 
But  stars  shall  all  their  pensive  influence  shed. 

There  thou  shalt  watch  through  the  gray  winter 

night, 
The  snow-robed  trees  outspread  their  long  white 

arms, 

Wooing  the  perfect  moon,  whose  clear,  chaste  light 
With  vestal  beauty  all  the  woodland  charms. 

In  these  white  weeds  Nature  no  longer  mourns, 
But  hides  her  fallen  leaf  with  bridal  veil ; 

And  he  whose  form  to  us  no  more  returns, 
Walks  in  new  beauty  that  shall  never  fail. 

For  me,  I  dare  not  think  an  evil  thought, 
Knowing  thy  noble  spirit  may  be  near, 

Knowing  the  wrong  in  life,  on  thee  I  wrought, 
Who  would  not  see  the  bad,  is  now  made  clear. 

I  meant  with  thee  to  wait  the  certain  years, 
Nor  pluck  the  unripe  fruit  of  fame  too  soon  ; 

Nor  sing  raw  songs  to  incontinent  ears, 
Or  blandly  wear  the  devil's  peaked  shoon. 

We  evermore  grow  old  and  learn  new  things  ; 

Thou  hadst  youth  and  all,  in  that  last,  first  breath  ! 
Time  cannot  give  us  what  the  instant  brings, 

Or  life  be  aught,  beside  the  Life  in  Death. 

— y.  A.,  in  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 


POEMS. 


MEMORIES  OF  COLLEGE  LIFE. 

A  POEM  DELIVERED  BEFORE  THE   "  POLYMNIA,"   HARVARD  COLLEGE, 
JULY   ii,    1853. 

TT'IND  Nature's  rule  is  marked  with  gladdening 
IV         change 

In  every  Season  of  the  circling  year. 
O'er  all  her  broad,  illimitable  range 

New  beauties,  fairer  than  the  old,  appear, 

And  Earth  is  grateful  for  the  generous  cheer. 
Where'er  upon  her  varying  robes  we  look  — 

The  strange  Enchantress  mortals  must  revere 
Whose  laws  no  dull  monotony  will  brook  — 
No  two  like  pages  in  her  magic  book. 

Forth  comes  with  merry  glance  and  laughing  eye 
Gay  Spring,  obedient  to  his  parent's  sway;  — 

Enlivening  earth  as  swiftly  passing  by 
He  scatters  blessings  on  his  joyous  way 


8  MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE. 

And  yields  to  Summer's  still  more  glad  array;  — 
Summer  whose  gorgeous  wealth  of  living  green 

Is  born  to  die  in  Autumn's  golden  day 
Till  twilight  blends  in  night  the  closing  scene 
And  Winter  whitens  earth  with  silver  sheen. 

And  as  with  Nature  —  so  it  is  with  man, 
Swept  by  an  ever-flowing  tide  along 

The  sea  of  life  —  when  widest  but  a  span, 
Around  his  bark  the  hurrying  waters  throng 
Amid  the  current  running  deep  and  strong. 

Far  off  he  hears  the  stately-swelling  roar, 
The  solemn  music  of  the  wild  waves'  song, 

Pealing  the  trackless  wastes  of  Ocean  o'er  — 

Dashing  and  breaking  on  Time's  boundless  shore. 

His  careless  childhood's  rosy  morning  light  — 
'Tis  like  to  Nature  in  her  budding  Spring. 

And  youth  is  Summer,  when  the  world  is  bright, 
When  joy  and  hope  their  garlands  o'er  him  fling, 
And  songs  of  gladness  ever  near  him  sing. 

But  Autumn's  yellow  leaves  and  skies  of  gray 
The  sterner  years  of  manhood's  season  bring; 

Till  age  the  call  of  Winter  must  obey, 

And  man,  his  life  all  ended,  pass  away. 

These  hallowed  haunts,  these  consecrated  shades, 
Where   long    has    lingered    Learning's  favorite 
shrine  ;  — 


MEMORIES    OF   COLLEGE    LIFE.  9 

Among  whose  waving  trees  and  peaceful  glades 
The  memories  of  a  cherished  past  entwine  — 
As  o'er  the  massive  walls  the  clinging  vine:  — 

These  Nature's  all-pervading  arms  enfold 

And  Nature's  laws  to  constant  change  consign, 

Whether  her  mantle  shine  with  green  or  gold 

Or  snows  or  blossoms  deck  this  classic  mould. 

As  thus  the  Seasons,  borne  on  Nature's  wings, 
These  ancient  scenes  with  varied  hues  impress, 

Kindly  our  loving  Alma  Mater  brings 
Ages,  not  like,  her  foster  sons  to  bless, 
Throwing  o'er  each  a  freshly-woven  dress. 

Four  years  her  watchful  cares  our  footsteps  guard, 
Shedding  new  blessings  from  each  golden  tress. 

How  like  these  gifts,  with  which    our   skies    are 
starred, 

To  Nature's  changes  in  the  College  yard! 

With  a  giant  frame  and  a  beard  of  white  — 
In  a  sombre  garb,  like  a  child  of  night, 
With  a  wrinkled  brow  and  a  tottering  tread, — 
As  one  whom  the  years  of  youth  had  fled, 
Winter,  cold  Winter,  has  bended  his  head, 
And  the  king,  that  sat  on  the  ice-throne,  is  dead. 
O'er  his  grave,  borne  along  on  the  soft  wind's  wing, 
Comes  the   silvery  laugh    of  the    wreath-crowned 
Spring. 


10  MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE. 

The  old  man  died,  when  the  brave  child  was  born, — 

The  night  passed  away  in  the  light  of  the  morn. 

He  comes  and  his  pathway  is  brightened  the  while 

With  the  golden  gleam  of  his  joy-lit  smile. 

The  murmuring  waves  of  the  swift-flowing  brook 

Have  loosened  their  chains  at  the  spell  of  his  look, 

And  the  rippling  tide,  as  it  dances  along, 

Is  ever  repeating  its  welcoming  song. 

O'er  mount  and  o'er  plain,  o'er  valley  and  hill, 

In  the  waves  of  the  sea  and  the  voice  of  the  rill, 

In  the  low  of  the  herd,  in  the  birds'  wild  thrill  — 

The  music  of  welcome  is  echoing  still. 

Where  the  breezes  play  on  the  oak-kings  old, 

Where  the  sunlight  streams  on  woodland  and  wold  ; 

Where,  mortals  unhearing,  the  spirit  bells  ring, 

That  live  in  the  leaf  and  the  tiniest  thing,  — 

The  voices  of  Nature  all  gratefully  sing 

Their  song-words  together,  in  welcome  to  Spring. 

Turn  we,  with   a  silent  yearning,   to  the  classic 

home  of  Learning, 
Where  the  spirit  of  the  present  guards  us  'neath 

his  fostering  wing  ;  — 
Here  amid  the  branches  bending,  'mid  the  murmurs 

never-ending,  — 
There  are  grateful  anthems  rising,  gushing  upward 

unto  Spring. 


MEMORIES    OF   COLLEGE    LIFE.  II 

Comes  he  treading  lightly  ever,  like  the  flowing  of 

a  river, 
With  a  chaplet  greenly  twining  o'er  the  beauty  of 

his  brow  — 
And  his  loosened  ringlets  golden,  floating  o'er  the 

places  olden, 
Tinge  the  scenes,  but  lately  dreary,  with  a  richer 

coloring  now. 

Little  blades  of  grass  are  peeping,  with  a  noiseless, 
steady  creeping, 

Forth  from  out  the  teeming  bosom  of  the  fruitful 
Mother  Earth. 

Buds  upon  the  trees  are  forming,  in  the  sunlight 
ever  warming, 

And  the  leaves  are  thickly  thronging,  springing  in- 
to joyous  birth. 

Everywhere  the  birds  are  flying,  with  their  busy 

fellows  vying, 
Bearing  to  the  chosen  branches  what   shall  make 

their  Summer  nests, — 
While   their  gratitude  revealing  bursts   the  wild, 

unfettered  feeling, 
Thrilling  forth  in  music  pealing  from  their  quickly 

throbbing  breasts. 

Then  the  gentle  shower  descending,  with  the  grass 
and  branches  blending, 


12  MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE   LIFE. 

Covers  Alma  Mater  over  with  a  mantle  still  more 

green  ;— 
Earth  with  newer  life  is  springing,  Nature  wilder 

songs  is  singing, — 
Thus  in  Spring  the  rain  refreshing  only  brightens 

all  the  scene. 

Taller  still  the  grass  is  growing,  warmer  are  the 

breezes  blowing, 
And   the  waves  of   Spring  are    flowing   to    their 

Summer  ending  way;  — 
Wider  yet  the  trees  are  branching,  broader  are  the 

shadows  glancing. 
(And  the   College  yard  is  greener  in  the  mellow 

light  of  May. 

O'er  each  time-imprinted  building  pours  a  gloom- 
dispelling  gilding, 

As  the  walls  are  clearly  shadowed  thro'  the  canopy 
of  leaves ; 

And  the  magic  artist  tracing,  every  rugged  trait 
effacing, 

Floats  about  in  airy  wavings  like  the  veil  enchant- 
ment weaves. 

Taller  yet  the  grass  is  growing,  warmer  breezes 

still  are  blowing, — 
Gayer  is  the  garb  of  Nature,  in  the  blitheness  of 

her  play, 


MEMORIES   OF    COLLEGE    LIFE.  13 

For  the  days  of  Spring  are  ending,  from  his  leaf- 
crowned  car  descending, — 

Comes  the  youngest  of  his  number — 'tis  the  wan- 
ing light  of  May. 

Spring  has  faded,  but  the  gladness  is  not  all  un- 
mixed with  sadness ; 

Still  we  linger  fondly  ever  on  the  joys  that  once 
have  been  ;  — 

And  in  memory  oft  returning,  think  we  with  a 
"silent  yearning," 

Of  the  days  when  he  enfolded  first  these  shades  in 
dress  of  green. 

From  Aleph  to  the  other  end,  from  the  cradle  to 

the  grave, 

From  the  first  delusive  bubbles  to  the  last  depart- 
ing wave, 
From  the  hurry,   heat  and  horrors  of  the  fierce 

Examination 
To  the  dropping  of  the  curtain  o'er  the  evening  of 

probation, 
From  the  "won't  anybody  hurt  me"  step,  which 

first  o'erpaced  the  yard, 
To    the    incipient    swagger   that    tells    of   getting 

"hard," 
While  o'er  the  walks  of  Harvard  the  trees  a  shadow 

fling, 


14  MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE. 

The  Freshman  year  in  College  must  be  the  type  of 
Spring. 

'Tis  evening  at  the  "Brattle"  and  standing  at  the 

door, 
Is  a  Freshman,  (if  he  enters)  a  Freshman,  "nothing 

more." 
Sadly  he  stands  in  thoughtful  mood  and  muses  on 

the  morrow, 

The  dread  examination  —  the  fiery  day  of  horror— 
And  trembles  lest  his   scanty  stock   of   country- 
gotten  knowledge 
Should  fail   to  set  him,  hair  unsinged,  within  the 

bounds  of  College. 
What  need  to  tell  his  musings  —  the  spirit  whines 

of  woe — 
For  we  were  trembling  Freshmen,  not  many  years 

ago. 
But  thro'  his  tears  a  voice  he  hears,  "  What,  down 

in  the  mouth,  my  jolly  ? 
Cheer  up  my  lad,  the  world  is  glad,  to  have  the 

blues  but  folly ;" 
And  a  tap  upon  the  shoulder  makes  him  look  to 

see  the  tapper 
"Perhaps,"  his  fancy  whispers,  "'tis  an  evil  spirit 

rapper." 
Oh  no,  a  spirit  never  wore  a  coat  of  such  a  style, 


MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE.  15 

Or  ever  saw  in  Spiritdom  exactly  such  a  tile. 
"My  friend,"  the  comer  thus  began,  "the  president 

requested 
-  Myself  to  ask  you  how  you  were,  and  how  last 

night  you  rested, 
He  saw  and  has  conceived  for  you  a  violent  affec-' 

tion, 
And  sent  me  here  to  offer  you  the  shade  of  his 

protection. 
He   hopes  you'll   enter — don't  you  smoke?     Ah 

well,  I  would' nt  learn, 
I    have   to   smoke   for   headaches  and  a  kind   of 

jumping  heart-burn." 
He  spoke,  and  knocked  the  ashes  from  the  end  of 

his  cigar, 
And  tipped  a  very  knowing  wink  to  the  man  behind 

the  bar ; 
"Of   course   you   know   the  sacred   tasks  of   the 

Examination  ?  — 
What,  no !  young  man,  you  put  me  in  the  greatest 

consternation. 
How  will  they  know  your  character,  whether  your 

heart  be  right  ? 
Great  Jove,  it  was  a  lucky  thing  we  thought  of  you 

to-night. 
The  first  of  Matthew's  gospel  your  strict  attention 

claims, 


1 6  MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE. 

That  grand   historic   picture  of  Scripture  proper 

names. 

They  ask  them  all  in  order ;  —  I  wouldn't  study  late 
It  is'nt  best  to  fret  yourself  into  an  anxious  state. 
Good-night,  remember  Matthew,  be  sure  and  lock 

your  doors, 
For  prowling  after   Freshmen  are   those  godless 

Sophomores." 
The  little  grass  is  peeping  up  above  the  earth-deep 

scene ; 
The  bud  is  coming,  and  the  whole  is  wonderfully 

green. 
The  College  sea  has  overflowed,  the  wave-gates  are 

unbarred, 
And  the  Freshet  pours  resistless  over  the  flooded 

yard. 
A  Freshman  !  all  his  wildest  dreams  are  gloriously 

real 

And  that  is  now  the  actual,  once  only  the  ideal. 
Oh,  'tis  indeed  refreshing  to  get  an  "admittatur" 
And  take  a  nap  "sub  tegmine"  of  one's  own  Alma 

Mater. 
So  leaps  the  heart  of  Nature  after  the  soft,  Spring 

rain, 
When  the  yellow  sunlight  glitters  on  tree  and  earth 

again. 
Our  Freshman  rooms  in  College,  a  pure,  confiding 

youth, 


MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LITE.         _  17 

Brought  up  to  love  his  parents  and  always  tell  the 

truth. 
He  wonders  how  the  Sophomores  those    wicked 

oaths  can  bear, 
And    knows  —  deluded    Freshman — that    he    will 

never  swear. 
Perhaps  ambition  fires  his  soul  and  rumbles  in  his 

breast, 
And  a  frantic  hope  inspires  him  to  tower  above  the 

rest. 
He  rises  faithfully  at  four  and  scans  his  lessons 

well, 

Till  warned  to  his  devotions  by  the  first  Mills'  tol- 
ling bell. 
He  digs  a  term  and  at  its  end  comes  up  the  mooted 

question, 
Whether   digging   be    not   liable   to    injure   one's 

digestion, 

And  finding  that  'tis  apt  to,  he  and  the  shovel  part 
To  gain   the  reputation   of   "don't  dig,   but  very 

smart." 

The  leaves  are  growing  thicker  in  the  crescent 
warmth  of  Spring, 

The  bell-tones  in  the  branches  with  clearer  peal- 
ings  ring. 

And  so  the  Freshman  waxes  as  wanes  the  Fresh- 
man year, 


l8  MElVfORlES   OF   COLLEGE    LIKE. 

And  wondrous  are  the  changes  that   in  the  lapse 

appear. 
But  many  hands  and  abler  have  sung  the  verdant 

age, 

Mine  must  not  linger  longer  on  this  initial  stage. 
We've  seen  him  when  commencing  —  one  glance 

unto  the  close 
Without  narrating  further  his  twice  and  thrice  told 

woes. 
,.A  year  in  College.     What  a  change — ye  gods !  how 

came  it  so  ? 

Is  this  the  milk  and  water  that  we  saw  a  year  ago  ? 
Whence  comes  that  tinge,  that  odor  whence  ?  the 

ruddy  liquid  hand  me. 
O   tell   it  not   in   Israel,   the  milk  has   turned  to 

brandy. 

That  pious  look  of  innocence,  that  unsuspecting  air, 
Those  pants  that  spoke  a  moral  —  that   peaceful 

cap  —  are  where  ? 
And   where  has   gone    the    roundabout,    the    old, 

ingenuous  jacket  ? 
Go    ask    the    cushion    that    he    stuffed, —  bought 

second-hand  of  Brackett. 
He  is  not  as  he  used  to  be  - —  strange  clothes  he 

loves  to  wear, 
And     sometimes  —  how     distressing  —  he's     even 

heard  to  swear. 


MEMORIES   OF   COLLEGE    LIFE.  19 

He's  learned  to  smoke,  and  cheap  cigars  had  made 
him  Ramsay's  debtor, 

Till  he  found  his  chum's  tobacco  and  thought  that 
pipes  were  better. 

He's  cultivated  oysters  and  drank  intensely  ale 

And  grown  robust  and  red-faced  instead  of  thin 
and  pale. 

He's  ridden  quite  extensively  —  who  cares  about 
the  bill  ? 

Ah,  Freshman  when  you  pony  up,  you'll  find  it  all 
up-/////. 

And  last  of  all  he  has  a  spree — in  which  he  settles 
quite  — 

How  loose  his  morals  really  are,  and  gets  ex- 
tremely tight. 

So  ends  his  College  Spring-time,  the  skies  of  Sum- 
mer glow, — 

Your  part  is  played — the  curtain  falls  —  ye  Fresh- 
men heroes  go. 

With  gentler  winds  the  branches  wave, 
In  music  murmurings  o'er  the  scene ;  — 

The  Heaven-distilling  dew-drops  lave 
The  beauty  of  a  richer  green. 

The  voice  of  Summer  fills  the  air, 

And  waft's  earth's  festal  days  along  — 

When  all,  that  meets  the  eye,  is  fair, 
And  all,  that  strikes  the  ear,  is  song. 


MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE. 

His  glories  shed  a  brighter  gleam 
On  Harvard's  leaf-encircled  trees  ; 

And,  like  an  ever  singing  stream, 
They  rustle  in  the  Summer  breeze. 

Nature  is  wild  with  very  joy, 
And  e'en  runs  riot  in  her  play. 

So  frolics  forth  the  laughing  boy  — 
The  morning  of  a  holiday. 

At  evening  thro'  the  silvered  leaves, 

The  full  moon  pours  her  witching  light,  - 

And  with  her  fairy  pencil  weaves 
The  scene  in  beauty  all  the  night. 

The  magic-painting  lightly  falls 
On  all  below  with  silent  beam, 

And  'neath  the  spell,  the  old  brick  walls 
Like  lordly  feudal  castles  seem. 

And  thus  these  haunts  in  long  array, 
The  spirits  of  the  Summer  guard. 

Who  does  not  love  the  joyous  day 
Of  Summer  in  the  College  yard  ? 

His  wreath  will  fade,  he  too  must  die, — 
His  sunny,  short-lived  reign  has  ceased ; 

For  rises  o'er  the  yellow  sky 
The  star  of  Autumn  in  the  east. 


MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE.  2 

The  Drama  changes  ;  on  the  College  stage, 
Appears  the  second,  Sophomoric  age  — 
The  wanton  Summer  time  of  College  life, 
With  foolish  wisdom  and  wise  folly  rife. 
When  fairly  fledged  from  chickenhood's  repose 
The  full-grown  rooster  flaps  his  wings  and  crows. 
He  vaunts  his  honors  in  his  first  vacation, — 
The  Mother's  fright,  the  maidens'  admiration. 
And  e'en  his  walk  the  wondering  village  o'er, 
Says,  plain  as  speech,  "I  am  a  Sophomore." 
Six  weeks  the  people  gape  and  stare,  and  then 
The  great  man  leaves  —  and  all  is  still  again. 
He  drops  on  Harvard,  singularly  clad 
In  motley  coat  and  pants  of  fearful  plaid, — 
And  on  his  lip,  to  cut  a  perfect  dash, 
He  blacks  the  shadow  of  a  friend's  moustache. 
As  thus  got  up,  he  views  him  in  the  glass  ; 
He  thinks  with  pity  of  the  Freshman  class. 

The  wild  exuberance  of  the  Summer  state 
Impels  him  onward  to  be  something  great. 
With  five  companions  deeply  he  conspires  — 
Each  one  an  Etna  full  of  hidden  fires. 
In  hollow  squares  they  charge  at  dead  of  night, 
And  put  one  Fresh,  in  snowy  garb  to  flight. 
Or,  bravely  sworn  to  do  or  die,  they  dare 
His  room  to  enter,  when  he  is  not  there. 


22  MEMORIES   OF    COLLEGE    LIFE. 

Beneath  their  windows,  if  perchance  he's  led, 

A    Summer-shower — not     heavenly — greets    his 

head. 

He  grasps  his  hat —  an  incoherent  mass  — 
And  vows  stern  vengeance  —  on  another  class. 

Sometimes  arrayed  in  most  exhausting  dress, 

Our  Soph,  invades  the  crowded  ball-room's  press. 

With  scented  locks  and  condescending  smile 

He  shows  the  last,  sublimest,  Harvard  style. 

He  mingles  lightly  in  the  graceful  dance, 

Or  quenches  damsels  with  his  ardent  glance  ;  — 

Until  at  last,  a  fair  one  dares  to  say, 

In  gentle  tones,  "are  you  a  Freshman,"  pray? 

The  cruel  cut  makes  every  fibre  glow ;  — 

A  Freshman,  say  you  ?  Freshman,  Madam,  no ! 

She  starts, —  a  sudden  rushing  thro'  the  door 

Tells  that  her  Freshman  was  a  Sophomore. 

He  falls  in  love,  that  blissful  poet-time  — 
And  writes  a  quire  or  two  of  wondrous  rhyme. 
His  sleep  is  gone,  he  ever  walks  the  street, 
And  strangest  thing  of  all,  he  does  not  eat. 
His  life  flows  on  —  a  brightly  gilded  scene  — 
A  moonlight  evening  on  the  College  green. 
But  soon  —  alas  he  had  been  sadly  smitten  — 
He  finds  his  saneness  folded  in  a  mitten. 


MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE   LIFE.  23 

And  so  the  tolling  bells  of  being  chime 
Away  the  moments  of  this  Summer-time. 
Its  gay  luxuriance  may  not  always  last  — 
It  goes'  to  slumber  with  the  buried  past. 
But  when  it  dies  a  gallant  reign  is  o'er  ;  — 
Hail  to  the  wild  and  dashing  Sophomore. 

The  scroll  of  Nature  is  unrolled;  — 
Again  a  change  is  o'er  the  scene. 
The  glowing  canopy  of  green 

Her  potent  wand  transforms  to  gold. 

The  calmer  skies  of  Autumn  bring 
The  harvest  with  its  loaded  train 
Of  ripening  fruit  and  yellow  grain, 

That  waving  in  the  sunlight  sing. 

The  leaves  have  gained  a  gayer  fringe 
And  glitter  on  the  nodding  trees ;  — 
Or  scattered  by  the  Autumn  breeze 

The  landscape  glist'ns,  with  a  gold'n  tinge. 

A  softened  light  is  over  all, 

Like  that  of  twilight's  lingering  ray, 
Which  still  illumes  the  parting  day. 

Before  the  shades  of  evening  fall. 

The  dropping  leaves,  with  rustling  sound, 
Pressed  by  the  hastening  student's  feet  — 


24  MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE. 

The  mellowed  reign  of  Autumn  greet  — 
His  kindly  sway  o'er  classic  ground. 

But  soon  the  trees  are  still  and  bare  ; 

The  naked  branches  are  alone ; 

The  only  sound  —  the  wild  wind's  moan, 
Which  whistles  from  the  storm-king's  lair. 

It  tells  that  Autumn's  sway  is  o'er; 

That  night  has  closed  his  darkening  day, 
And  becks,  with  threatening  hand,  away ; 

He  will  return  again  no  more. 

Autumn  has  gone  ;  his  dying  breath 
v  Was  silvered  by  the  Winter's  frost;  — 

But  tho'  his  golden  days  are  lost, 
Their  memory  lingers  e'en  in  death. 

Freshman  and  Soph,  have  lived  and  passed  away, 

New  actors  enter  in  our  College  play. 

With  manly  step  and  open,  earnest  brow, 

The  Junior  treads  the  changing  platform  now. 

The  early  Spring  of  Freshmanhood  is  o'er  — 

Over  the  Summer  of  the  Sophomore  — 

A  fairer,  brighter  time  than  all  is  here  — 

The  Autumn  glory  of  the  Junior  year. 

Above  the  snares  that  vex  the  Freshman's  path, 

Above  the  snarer's  never  pitying  wrath, 

The  waters  of  his  calm  existence  glide, 

Like  the  deep-flowing  of  the  ocean  tide. 


MK.MORIKS  OF  COI.I.EC.K  I.IKK.  25 

At  prayers  he  waits  his  anxious  steps  no  more 
Till  eighty  others  have  blocked  up  the  door ; 
But  with  the  foremost  leaves  the  holy  spot, 
And  drinks  his  coffee,  while  the  liquid's  hot. 

When  deadly  conflict  wages  on  the  Delta, 
And  sanguine  Freshmen  in  fresh  sanguen  welter 
The  Junior  calmly  views  each  shattered  shin, 
And  begs  the  Freshmen  to  "go  in  and  win." 
While  light  cigar  smoke,  wreathing  o'er  the  strife. 
Proclaims  the  tenor  of  his  even  life. 

He  has  a  part  —  the  wages  of  ambition  — 
On  that  great  day  —  a  College  Exhibition/ 
And  hires  a  toga,  but  to  dress  him  quite, 
He  must  invest  him  in  a  vest  of  white. 
With  coat  of  black  and  buttons  of  the  same  — 
Without  the  door  he  waits  the  expected  name  ; 
He  mounts  the  Rostrum,  looking  very  pale, 
While  storms  of  claps  his  welcome  advent  hail. 
His  bow  is  made  —  that  grand,  artistic  start, 
That  cuts  the  water  of  the  coming  part. 
Perchance  he  tells  in  verse  with  poet-look, 
How  "fresh-delivered  are  river  and  brook." 
Or  sees  the  tear  steal  down  the  maiden's  cheek 
As  soft  he  utters  the  mellifluous  Greek. 
But  look,  he  stops  —  his  minutes  were  but  four  — 
VUas,  that  such  an  one  should  have  no  more. 


26  MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE. 

The  Junior  often  in  the  village  school, 

Takes  up  the  sceptre  of  an  awful  rule. 

Far  in  the  woods  he  wields  the  faithful  rod 

Or  seeks  the  fertile  pastures  of  Cape  Cod  — 

Devoting  thus  the  Autumn  of  his  days, 

To  whipping  children  into  wisdom's  ways. 

Imparting,  too,  a  purer  moral  tone, 

By  introducing  morals  of  his  own. 

The  leaves  that  gayly  on  the  Junior's  head, 

When    Autumn    dawned    their    changing    glories 

shed, — 

Have  withered,  for  the  icy  winds  draw  near 
That  bear  the  monarch  of  the  ending  year. 
Our  Junior  age  is  over.     In  the  west, 
Our  Autumn  star,  still  shining,  goes  to  rest. 
The  hours  its  light  once  gilded,  all  are  o'er; 
Their  joys  have  fled  —  they  will    come   back    no 

more. 

But  in  our  hearts  that  star's  unfading  rays 
Will  keep  forever  green  these  happy  days. 

The  College  yard  is  wreathed  in  snow 

And  all  is  cold  and  drear ; 
The  trees  moan  out  their  song  of  woe, 

For  Winter's  lord  is  here. 

Whatever  lived  'neath  warmer  skies 
Is  faded  now  and  dead ;  — 


MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE.  2J 

Nor  leaf,  nor  bud  may  greet  our  eyes ;  — 
Their  board  of  death  is  spread. 

The  pump  looks  cold  with  wintry  strife, 

Nor  opes  its  mouth  of  wood 
Amid  the  ups  and  downs  of  life; 

'T would  shiver  if  it  could. 

The  time-stained  walls  are  guant  and  bare, 

The  bricks  are  grim  and  old, 
And  thro'  the  crannies  everywhere 

Sweeps  in  the  cheerless  cold. 

But  when  the  fire  at  evening  beams 

With  ruddy,  pleasant  light, 
And  forth  from  out  the  window  gleams 

Its  offering  to  the  night. 

The  glow  defies  the  winter's  power 

To  make  the  moments  sad, 
When  buoyant  comrades  crown  the  hour 

And  youth's  high  hearts  are  glad. 

Last  scene  of  all,  must  Winter  close 

The  Seasons'  mystic  train, 
And,  with  the  melting  of  his  snows, 

Forget  his  ice-bound  reign. 

The  end  is  nigh,  and  ebbing  fast 
The  one,  short  life-hour  flies. 


28  MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE. 

A  backward  glance  upon  the  past  — 
And  then  the  old  year  dies. 

Again  the  scene  is  changed,  yet  one  act  more 

And  the  whole  drama  of  our  life  is  o'er. 

The  rest  have  played.     The  Senior  but  remains, 

The  man  of  weighty  and  abundant  brains. 

Among  whose  locks  the  Winter  spirit  strew 

A  grain  or  two  of  wisdom-giving  snow. 

He  comes  with  wrinkled  brow  and  thoughtful  look, 

Which  tell  of  midnight  porings  o'er  his  book, — 

And  the  grave  air  that  marks  the  College  sage 

Who's  lived  to  see  the  Winter  of  his  age. 

He  has  a  calm  contempt  for  all  below 

The  priceless  ore  that  decks  the  Senior's  row. 

He  laughs  at  College  jokes  as  children's  play, 

And  wishes  hazing  could  be  done  away. 

He  scorns  the  boyish,  Sophomoric  sting  — 

But  shuns  a  Freshman  as  an  unclean  thing. 

He  is  a  Senior  —  the  great  man  of  all, 
Whose  frowning  eyes  the  boldest  Fresh,  appal ;  — 
The  fated  object  of  the  Mother's  schemes  — 
The  whiskered  hero  of  the  daughter's  dreams 
Who,  when  Commencements'  sun  shall  set,  is  free 
To  woo  and  win  —  that  squire  of  a  degree. 

Oh,  'tis  the  otium  of  scholastic  life 
Cum  dignitate.     Come  not  toil  and  strife 


MEMORIES    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE.  29 

To  mar  the  pleasures  of  his  thornless  breast, 
Or  wrest  the  calmness  from  his  peaceful  rest. 

As  Winter's  joys  are  of  the  lighted  room 

Where  one  forgets  the  dark,  external  gloom, 

So  does  the  Senior  in  his  hoary  age 

Internal  war  'gainst  outward  duties  wage. 

Firm  in  the  right,  unblushingly  he  dares 

To  claim  the  freedom  of  domestic  prayers  ;  — 

And  when  the  bells,  at  morning,  echo  deep 

He  wakes,  rebels,  and  so  he  falls  asleep ; 

And  dreams  that  fate  has  ended  all  his  cares 

And  sent  him  where  they  ring  no  bells  for  prayers. 

But  o'er  the  Senior  clouds  impending  lower, 
As  Winter  hastens  towards  the  closing  hour ; 
The  time  approaches,  when    those   friends    must 

part, 
Who've    woven    Friendships    closest    round    the 

heart, — 

Must  part  —  perchance  to  meet  no  more  again, 
In  the  new  paths  of  life  they  tread  as  men. 

One  wild  hurrahing  round  the  old  elm  tree  — 
One  song  from  leaping  hearts  and  voices  free, — 
That  still  the  touch  of  memory's  wand  may  twine 
Around  the  happy  days  of  "Auld  Land  Syne" — 
A  crowded  thronging  on  "Commencement  Day," 


30  MEMORIES   OF    COLLEGE    LIFE 

Once  more  with  classmates  in  a  full  array  — 
One  hearty  grasp  —  one  parting  word  at  last  — 
And  "  College  Life "  lives  only  in  the  past. 

Classmates,  the  Seasons  thrice  have  dressed  the 

College  yard, 

Since  first  we  wandered  o'er  these  scenes  alone, — 
And  prayed    the  kindly   genius  of   the  place   to 

guard 
Our  barks  across  the  sea — untried  —  unknown. 

Time,  with  his  never  resting,  ever  wasting  waves, 
Has  borne  us  on  along  his  silent  tide  ;  — 

Three    joy-fraught    years    are    sleeping    in    their 

hallowed  graves ;  — 
One  year  is  left  —  that  will  not  long  abide. 

We've  known  the  new-born  pleasures  of  a  gladden- 
ing Spring  — 

The  cloudless  glories  of  a  Summer-morn  — 
We've  plucked  the  golden  fruits   that   Autumn's 

harvests  bring 
And  Autumn,  Summer,  Spring,  all  now  are  gone. 

Twelve   fleeting    months  —  and   Winter — last    to 
die  —  is  o'er, 

"Fair  Harvard"  has  no  other  joys  to  give  — 
The  Ocean-waters  bear  us  from  the  fading  shore, 

Another  life,  in  the  great  world,  to  live. 


COLLEGE   SOCIETY   ODE.  31 

But    when    this    brightly-colored,    brief    existence 

ends, 

Our  parting  song  shall,  sadly  lingering,  swell, 
And  tremblingly  the  tongue  to  cherished  scenes 

and  friends 
Shall  speak  the  heart-grief  in  its  last  farewell. 


COLLEGE  SOCIETY  ODE. 

The  tree  that  we  planted  so  tenderly  here, 

When  its  weakness  entreated  our  aid, 
Which  fondly  we  cherished  while  danger  was  near, 

And  lovingly  nursed  thro'  the  shade 
Has  opened  its  arms  to  the  nourishing  showers 

And  grown  in  the  generous  light, 
Till  its    branches    have    blossomed  all   over  with 
flowers, — 

We're  breathing  their  fragrance  to-night. 

The  perfume  that  floats  from  the  blossomings  fair 

To  the  wantoning  breezes  is  flung, 
But,  at  last,  when  the  flow'rs  shall  have  faded  in 
air, 

The  boughs  with  the  fruit  shall  be  hung. 


32  THE   COURSE   OF   THE   STREAM. 

And  the  wreaths  to  be  woven  of  gold  and  of  green 
That  the  fays  in  the  branches  entwine, 

As    they   blend    with    the    sunlight    that    dances 

between, 
Shall  be  laid  on  our  brotherly  shrine. 

Oh,  green  be  the  tree  that  waves  over  us  now 
When  we  rest  in  its  shadows  no  more, 

And  sweet  be  the  voice  of  the  murmuring  bough 
As  it  whispers  of  days  that  are  o'er, 

For  we  cannot  forget  that  our  parting  is  near, 
That  to-night  we  must  tremblingly  tell 
o  the  joys  and  the  friends  we  have  counted  so 

dear, — 
The  words  of  our  solemn  farewell. 


THE  COURSE  QF  THE  STREAM. 

Darting  from  a  fairy  fountain, 

Quivering  in  the  silver  jet, 
All  adown  the  silent  mountain, 

Came  the  new-born  rivulet. 

Flowed  the  water,  tripping,  leaping, 
To  the  music  of  its  song  ; 


THE    COURSE    OF    THE    STREAM.  33 

Like  the  rustling  grain  at  reaping, 
Swept  the  dancing  waves  along. 

Overhead  the  branches  twining, 

Shadows  on  the  brooklet  made; 
Thro'  the  leaves  the  sunlight  shining, 

Mingled  kindly  with  the  shade. 

And  the  pearly  pebbles  glistened 

That  aneath  the  waves  did  lie, — 
Silently  —  as  if  they  listened, 

To  the  ripples  floating  by — 

While  the  mossy  banks  that  greenly 
Watched  the  foaming  wavelets  glide, 

In  the  stillness  smiled  serenely, 
At  the  beauty  of  the  tide. 

And  the  branches  stayed  their  playing, 

Mirrored  in  the  wave  to  look ; 
But  the  secrets  it  was  saying, 

Told  them  not  the  laughing  brook. 

Onward  thro'  the  forests  flowing, 

Onward  toward  the  rushing  sea, 
Broader,  deeper,  fairer  growing, 

Shadowing  what  it  was  to  be, — 

With  a  song  of  mirth  and  sweetness, 
That  its  lonely  way  beguiled, 


34  THE    COURSE    OF    THE    STREAM. 

Onward  to  a  fair  completeness, 
Sped  away  the  river-child. 

As  girlhood  sees  its  golden  dawn 

Maturing  into  riper  day, — 
When,  softly  o'er  life's  pictured  lawn, 

The  light  of  maidenhood  doth  play  ;  — 

So,  winding  thro'  the  meadows  green 
That  there  the  cooling  waters  wet, 

A  silver  brook  illumed  the  scene, — 
No  more  the  bounding  rivulet. 

Its  waves  rolled  on  with  calmer  beat, 
Than  in  the  early  mountain-time  ; 

And  seemed  the  merry  elves  to  greet, 
In  words  it  sang  in  sweeter  rhyme. 

And  as  it  laved  its  banks  the  while 
And  bathed  their  verdure  in  the  spray, 

They  gave  the  streamlet  back  a  smile, 
That  cheered  it  on  its  seaward  way. 

It  flowed  by  fields  of  waving  grain, 
Where  laughs  to  life  the  yellow  corn  ; 

And  gladdened  is  the  silken  train, 
For,  lo !  it  waits  the  harvest  morn. 

And  where  along  the  sunny  glade, 

The  grass  doth  woo  the  wind's  caress ; 


THE  COURSE  OF  THE  STREAM.  35 

The  farmer  knows  the  generous  aid, 
That  shall  his  barns  with  plenty  bless. 

It  flowed  thro'  pastures  wide  and  fair; 

While  standing  on  the  shelving  brink, 
And  snuffing  in  the  freshened  air 

The  buxom  cattle  come  to  drink. 

By  hills  that  blossomed  with  the  vine, 
The  stream,  in  careless  measure,  ran ; 

And  soon  shall  come  the  welcome  wine, 
"That  maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man." 

But  when  the  night  has  drawn  her  veil, 

And  moonlight  —  merry  moonlight  —  comes, 

When  man  bids  sleep  and  dreaming  hail, 
And  nothing  but  the  stillness  hums; 

Another  beauty  shrouds  the  brook, 
And,  till  the  hours  of  night  are  o'er, 

The  pages  of  a  fairer  book 

Are  shining  with  the  rhythmic  lore. 

Beneath  the  moon  the  waters  glide 

And  watch  the  witching  spell  it  weaves, 

The  ripples  dance  adown  the  tide  — 
'Tis  like  the  play  of  silver  sheaves. 

They  wind  along  the  haunted  dell, 
Below  the  ruined  castle-wall ; 


36          THE  COURSE  OF  THE  STREAM. 

And  lightly  doth  the  streamlet  tell, 
The  legends  that  enshrine  them  all. 

The  fairies  raise  a  laughing  shout 
From  underneath  their  trysting-tree  ; 

'  Tis  strange,  when  such  bright  things  are  out 
Mortals  are  never  there  to  see  ! 

But  moonlight  fair,  nor  sunlight  sheen  — 
Howe'er  they  charm  the  glancing  track, — 

Tho'  "bonny  banks"  it  flow  between  — 
Can  keep  the  hopeful  current  back. 

Flow  on !  ye  shall  not  miss  the  goal 

That  lies  beyond  you  and  afar ; 
Ye  waves,  that  to  the  ocean  roll, 

Behold  yon  guiding  Ocean- Star  ! 

Behind  are  the  waters  that  sprang  from  the  foun- 
tain, 

And  dashed  in  the  wildness  of  life  down  the  moun- 
tain; 

Behind  is  the  brook  that  was  peacefully  laving 
The  banks  where  the  flowers   and  the  branches 

were  waving. 

Farewell  to  you  all,  and  farewell  to  you  ever,— 
Before  lie  serenely  the  waves  of  the  river, — 
How  calm  and  majestic  the  murmurless  tide  ! 
How  softly  it  runneth  the  green  banks  beside  ! 


THE    COURSE    OF    THE    STREAM.  37 

\Yith  a  power  all  exultant  that  knows  it  is  free, 
Thro'  sunlight  and  shadow  it  moves  to  the  sea. 
It  rolls  through  the  wood  by  the  side  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  silence  is  cheered  by  the  busy  old  mill : 
The  harvest  is  in  —  and  the  river  again 
Shall  welcome  the  corn  that  illumined  the  plain  ; 
It   had  watched   the  long  leaves   in   the   summer 

appear, 

It  had  watched  on  the  stalk  the  full  corn  in  the  ear. 
And  would  it  reveal  the  weird  things  it  has  seen, 
It  could  tell  how  the  corn  turns  to  gold  from  the 

green. 

And,  now,  when  the  farmer  comes  down  to  the  mill, 
The  red  corn  the  water  remembereth  still ; 
By  the  hand  of  the  miller  the  strong  tide  is  led, — 
And,  lo  —  on  the  table  is  shining  the  bread. 
But  the  silvery  waves  never  stop  in  their  play, — 
The  star  that  is  leading  calls  ever  away ; 
Tho'  no  longer  they  roll  as  the  bright  ripples  ran, 
For  the  rivulet-child  is  the  proud  river-man. 
Still  on,  and  they  hear  the  live  world  in  its  song, 
And  cities  are  smiling  their  borders  along : 
Still  on  —  and  tall  ships  on  the  fair  waters  ride, 
And  go  down  to  the  sea  with  the  flow  of  the  tide ; 
Now  nearer  and  clearer,  soft  whisperings  come 
Which  welcome  the  river  like  voices  of  home. 
Still  silently  on  —  till  it  reaches  the  goal, 


38  LETTER. 

Where  before  the  glad  waters  "great  Ocean"  doth 

roll: 

The  tired  river  falls  on  his  fatherly  breast, 
And,  clasped  in  his  arms,  sinketh  sweetly  to  rest. 
While  above  —  the  bright  guide  it  had  followed  so 

far- 
Still  shines  o'er  the  Ocean  that  beautiful  Star. 


LETTER, 

WRITTEN   TO  THE  PLYMOUTH  HOME  AFTER  A   THANKSGIVING  VISIT, 


Should  you  ask  me,  why  this  letter  ? 
With  a  Portsmouth  odor  on  it  — 
Why  this  note  of  tribulation  — 
Writ  with  little  skill  of  scribe-craft  ? 

I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
\  Very  briefly  I  should  tell  you, 
/Very  quickly  I  should  answer, 
Why  I  write  this  note  of  sorrow, 
Why  this  note  of  love  and  sorrow, 
As  the  painting  of  the  Ojibways, 
So  this  note  of  love  and  sorrow. 

If  you  still  should  further  ask  me, 
Why,  each  line  of  this  my  letter 


LETTER. 

Hath  a  letter  to  begin  with, 
Larger  than  the  other  letters, 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  largest  ? 

I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you  - 
Very  much  provoked,  tell  you 
'Tis  a  Poem,  O  benighted, 
Poem  very  much  benighted, 
In  trochaic  verse  indited 
And  the  very  shortest  sighted 
Ought  to  see,  that  in  a  Poem 
Every  line  begins  with  letters 
Larger  far  than  all  the  others, — 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  largest, 
Large  as  is  a  great  Puk  Wudgie ! 
Hiawatha's  peace-pipe  large  as  ! 

If  you  still  should  further  ask  me, 
Any  further  questions,  ask  me, 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you 
Mildly,  and  yet  firmly  tell  you, 
Listen,  hearken  to  my  answer;  — 
Like  the  Ajidanmo  chatting 
Are  the  tongues  of  teasing  woman  ! 

Yester  morning  very  sadly 
Puffywuffy,  steam-king,  bore  me 
To  the  regions  of  the  Northwest, 
Of  the  Northwest  wind  Kaberjim, 
Sadly,  for  they  were  not  with  me 
Those  I  love  and  some  who  loved  me. 


39 


40  LETTER. 

Like  the  flying  Pawpukkiewis 
When  he  fled  from  Hiawatha, 
From  the  avenging  Hiawatha, 
Fled  the  steam-king,  Puffywuffy, 
With  his  moccasins  of  fire  made ! 
With  his  mittens  of  the  pine  wood 
And  his  pantaloons  of  water  ! 
Puffywuffy  did  not  scare  me, 
Though  he  groaned  a  horrid  groaning, 
Tho'  he  puffed  a  peaceful  puffing 
And  he  smoked  the  peace-pipe,  did  he ; 
And  the  sun  shone  fiercely,  saying 
"  Life  is  hard  and  man  is  heartless, 
Life  is  cold  and  man  is  cruel, 
Money  rules,  the  bank-bill,  gold-dust  — 
Make  much  money,  Jimmie  Kendall." 
And  the  moon  took  off  her  night-cap 
Popped  her  venerable  head  up 
Smiled  benignantly  —  and  growled  out 
"  Life's  the  sunniest  thing  I  know  of, 
Only  find  out  how  to  live  it, 
Man's  the  j oiliest  air-consumer, 
Learn  to  keep  him  always  jolly 
Money  rules  not,  rule  thou  money  — 
Bank-bill,  gold-dust  best  thing  going, 
Spend  much  money,  Jimmie  Kendall." 

Thus  it  was  we  went  to  Boston 


LETTER.  41 

With  our  baggage,  went  to  Boston. 
Slowly  went  we  up  to  Whipple's 
Famous  artist's,  Mr.  Whipple's, 
Man  who  makes  another  of  you, 
Man  who  makes  the  sun  his  pencil;  — 
Said  I,  "  Mr.  Whipple,  can  you 
From  a  picture  you  have  taken 
Take  another  just  as  good  as 
That  was  ? "     Answered  Mr.  Whipple, 
"They  will-  be  but  slightly  unlike 
Very  like  to  one  another, 
I  will  take  the  copy  for  you, 
You  shall  choose  if  you  will  have  it." 
Said  I  "  Thank  you,  Mr.  Whipple." 
"  You  are  welcome,  Jimmie  Kendall," 
And  amid  the  bustling  many, 
Many  rushing  o'er  the  pavement, 
Many  going,  men  and  women, 
Going  for  the  sake  of  going, 
Many  coming,  men  and  women, 
Coming,  tired  to  death  of  going. 

Next  we  entered  this  the  doorway, — 
Swelling  out  to  fill  the  doorway  — 
Of  a  building  where  great  books  were, 
Filled  with  books  from  top  to  bottom ! 
Said  I,  "  I  have  come  a  wooing 
For  a  picture,  come  a  wooing, 


42  LETTER. 

'Tis  the  'Starlight  and  the  sunbeam,' 
That  I've  come  to  woo  and  buy  too ; 
For  the  wigwam  of  my  Auntie, 
Wants  the  starlight  for  the  darkness, 
Wants  the  sunbeam  when  the  clouds  come. 
"  You  shall  have  it,"  said  the  shopboy, 
"  Have  the  '  starlight  and  the  sunbeam.'  " 

Then  I  roamed  until  a  maiden, 
Blue-eyed,  bright-haired  JPojtsmouth  maiden, 
Met  me  in  the  angry  tumult, 
Asked  me  to  take  dinner  with  her, 
Smiled  I  then,  for  love  I  dinner. 
And  I  asked  the  damsel  gently 
If  she  would  not  like  to  go  up 
To  the  (Athenaeum  with  me, 
Pretty  pictures  look  at  with  me, 
So  we  went  to  see  the  pictures, 
And  we  stayed  the  pictures  seeing 
Till  the  hour  had  come  for  dinner 
Till  the  hour  had  gone  for  dinner, 
Left  the  maiden  at  her  door  stone, 
In  her  house  I  left  my  dinner ! 

Ran  I  then  and  got  my  picture, 
Wrote  the  note  and  took  the  picture, 
To  the  Express,  I  took  the  picture, 
But  the  Express  had  gone  before, 
Very  early  did  the  Express  go ! 


LETTER.  43 

What  to  do  was  quite  a  puzzle ;  — 
Soon  the  Portsmouth  train  must  take  me 
To  the  land  of  Shining  Wabun, 
So  I  could  not  to  the  depot, 
Plymouth  depot,  take  the  bundle, 
And  to  Rich  the  Expressman  it  give, 
As  he  stood  there  in  the  Depot ! 
What  to  do  was  quite  a  puzzle, 
Just  then,  up  a  Classmate  sauntered, 
Said  that  he  would  take  the  picture, 
Send  it  to  the  Plymouth  depot. 
Did  it  reach  you  in  your  wigwam  ? 
Did  it  stop  not  ere  it  reached  you  ? 
Much  I  feared  it  might  not  reach  you, 
Sad  I  shall  be  if  it  did  not. 

This  is  why  I  write  this  letter 
With  the  Portsmouth  odor  on  it, 
Like  the  painting  of  the  Ojibways, 
Only  not  so  easy  found  out, 
Love  to  all  who  love  to  be  loved, 
Those  who  love  me  and  that  I  love, 
Fare  thee  well,  I  may  not  linger ;  — 
I  am  called,  I  must  not  linger, 
To  the  Isle  of  Nodding  Night-cap, 
To  the  "  Kingdom  of  the  Sleep-God," 
To  the  land  of  dreams  and  shadows ! 


44  MARY    ANN. 

NOTE  IST. —  Having  had  no  Hiawatha  (tKe  latest  work  on 
Indian  nomenclature)  at  hand,  I  cannot  answer  for  the  ortho- 
graphy. 

NOTE  2ND. —  The  allusion  to  fire,  wood  and  water,  as  the 
elements  of  motion  in  the  Engine,  we  regard  as  painfully  grand. 

AUTHOR. 


MARY  ANN. 

FOR  A  FAIR. 

Maiden  with  the  mossy  tresses, 
Wavy  tresses,  bright  and  golden, 
Shining  in  the  air  of  Summer, 
Floating  on  the  pleasant  South-wind, 
Hear  my  sad  and  touching  story, 
Listen  to  my  plaintive  story ! 

I  was  very  much  in  love  with 
Mary  Ann  just  round  the  corner;  — 
Mary  Ann  of  eyes  so  dancing, 
Dancing  to  the  wicked  music 
Of  her  hard  and  frozen  bosom  ; 
And  I  thought,  she  thought  a  little 
Tender,  of  the  sad  subscriber  — 
Always  sitting  at  the  window, 
When  I  went  just  round  the  corner, 
Always  smiling  at  the  window 


MARY    ANN.  45 

As  she  spied  me  round  the  corner. 

(O  that  corner!    O  my  heart  strings 
Pulled  around  that  fatal  corner ! 
If  you  ever  feel  like  loving 
Never  love  around  a  corner.) 
Oftentimes  she  threw  a  kiss  out, 
Threw  a  kiss,  my  Mary  Ann  did ; 
Oftentimes  she  said  "Come  in  John," 
Oftentimes  said  John  came  in. 

Oh  !  the  little  parlor  in  there, 
With  its  winking,  wicked  carpet, 
And  its  flirting,  flashing  fire-light 
And  M.  A.  down  on  a  cricket ! 
Goodness !  sitting  on  a  cricket ;  — 
Pa  and  Ma,  and  all  the  children 
Gone  to  bed  and  left  us  there. 
Oh  !  the  witching  nights  of  winter  ! 
Oh !  that  parlor  in  the  winter ! 
Oh !  that  female  on  the  cricket ! 
(If  you  ever  feel  like  loving 
Don't  love  what  sits  on  a  cricket.) 

Well,  one  night, —  oh  dear,  it's  dreadful 
For  to  tell,  or  even  think  it ! 
I  had  stepped  just  round  the  corner 
Seen  my  Mary  through  the  window, 
Walked  within  the  little  parlor, 
And  there  on  the  usual  cricket 


46  MARY   ANN. 

Sat  the  lonely  spider  waiting 

For-  the  foolish  fly  to  come  in 

To  the  parlor,  pretty  parlor  — 

By  and  by  the  old  folks  started 

And  we  sat  there, —  we  two  sat  there. 

Pretty  soon  I  sat  up  closer, 

Kinder  took  her  hand  and  whispered 

"  Mary  Ann,  dear  Mary  Ann,  I  "• 

Here  I  choked,  it  was'nt  in  nature 
To  get  thro'  without  some  trouble;  — 
"Mary  Ann,  my  thoughts  have  settled 
Pretty  much  about  this  corner, 
I  like  you  the  best  of  all  the 
Girls  I  know  ;  —  now  will  you  have  me  ? " 
I  looked  up,  her  face  was  purple, 
Purple  with  a  fit  of  laughing, 
Laughing  as  if  it  would  kill  her, 
"John"  says  she,  "I  guess  'twill  kill  me." 

Off  she  went  a  laughing,  harder 
Than  she  laughed  before  —  I  racked  my 
Brains  to  find  out  what  in  goodness 
Made  a  Christian  woman  laugh  so, 
'Cause  a  man  had  spoke  up  to  her. 
Says  she,  "John  I  can't  help  laughing, 
Laughing  as  if  it  would  kill  me, 
For  last  night  I  said  I'd  marry 
'Bijah,  round  the  other  corner." 


TO    A.    E.    H.  47 

Wildly  rushed  I  out  the  parlor, 
Leaving  Mary  laughing  at  me;  — 
Wildly  rushed  I  through  the  entry 
Right  against  a  man  there,  rushed  I 
Who  but  'Bijah, —  he  was  laughing, 
He'd  been  harking  at  the  key-hole ! 
Seized  I  'Bijah  by  the  collar, 
Dragged  I  'Bijah  thro'  the  front  door, 
And  amid  the  shrieks  of  Mary, 
Swung  I  'Bijah  round  that  corner! 

So  to-day  I  go  to  Egypt, 
Maiden,  you  have  heard  my  story : 
Drop  a  tear  upon  my  story ;  — 
Story  of  a  true  love  smothered 
By  a  Mary  Ann  and  'Bijah. — \_Exit  in  fears.] 


TO  A,  E,   H. 

FOR  HER  ALBUM, 

I  watch  the  snow-flakes  drawing  down 
A  white  veil  over  field  and  town, — 
And  my  unresting  spirit  longs 
For  birds  and  flowers  and  Summer  songs. 


48  LETTER   TO   J.    W.    B. 

In  rosy  clouds  and  glancing  leaves 
I  see  the  spell  the  Summer  weaves ; 
But  now  I  think,  forgetting  her, 
How  beautiful  the  snow-flakes  were. 

Teach  me,  beneath  whatever  skies, 
To  find  the  beauty  ere  it  flies ; 
So  will  a  blessing  come  to  mine 
From  out  that  sunny  soul  of  thine, 
CAMBRIDGE,  Jan.  12,  1859. 


LETTER  TO  J.  W.  B., 

ON  HIS  GIVING  UP  HIS  SCHOOL  AND  BECOMING  REPRESENTATIVE. 

BOSTON,  Jan.  i,  1859. 
Nephew  living  down  in  Boston, 
Wearing  spectacles  and  white  hair, 
To  his  uncle  in  the  country  — 
(Large  man  living  in  the  country, 
With  the  blue  coat  and  brass  buttons, 
Bright  blue  coat  and  shiny  buttons), 
To  his  uncle  sendeth  greeting. 
First  the  nephew  sends  his  uncle 
And  his  uncle's  wife  and  children  — 


LETTER    TO    J.    W.    B.  49 

(Charming  wife  —  young  lady  cousins) 
Wishes  for  a  happy  new-year  — 
Happy  new-year,  full  of  sunshine, 
Full  of  flowers  and  birds  and  blue  skies  — 
Pocket  money  very  plenty — 
Good  fat  eating  all  the  year  round, 
Christmas  dinners  every  noon  time, 
When  it  aint  Thanksgiving  dinners. 
Then  the  nephew  takes  his  uncle  — 
By  the  right  hand  of  his  uncle, 
(Not  his  real  hand  —  flesh  and  blood  hand, 
But  a  kind  of  pen  and  ink  hand), 
And  he  shakes  it  very  warmly  — 
Squeezes  it  and  shakes  it  warmly, 
Winking  at  the  same  time  strongly, 
Smiling  at  the  same  time  mildly, 
Smiling,  winking,  looking,  beaming — 
Pointing,  too,  outside  the  window, 
With  his  left  hand  out  the  window  — 
At  a  line  of  moving  urchins, 
Moving  slowly  from  the  precincts. 
Big  and  little  —  coats  and  jackets, 
Moving  all  from  bed  and  board  off, 
And  the  nephew  says  good  riddance, 
And  the  uncle  says  good  riddance, 
And  the  Aunt,  she  says  good  riddance, 
And  the  cousins,  say  good  riddance, 


50  LETTER   TO   J.    W.  .  B. 

All  the  household  in  a  chorus, 
Singing  in  a  household  chorus, 
Bid  the  boys  good  bye,  and  also  — 
Bid  the  boys  good  riddance  also, 
"  No  more  walking  says  the  uncle  — 
Walking  up  and  down  the  school  room 
Teaching  little  boys  their  letters, 
Bothering  my  brains  with  school  boys, 
Bothering  their  brains  with  letters. 
No  more  mending  ragged  boys  up, 
Says  the  aunt,  and  smiling  says  it, 
No  more  stockings  very  ragged 
More  of  holes  in  them  than  stockings. 
No  more  jackets  torn  and  dirty 
Pantaloons  just  like  the  jackets, 
No  more  rompings  thro'  the  entries, 
No  more  animals  to  fodder." 
(I  mean  in  the  house  to  fodder) 
Little  animals  whose  stomachs 
Are  unbounded  —  always  hungry, 
Seem  like  made  of  India  Rubber, 
Stretch  the  more  the  more  you  put  in. 

"  No  more  rude  boys,"  say  the  children, 
"  Plaguing  us  as  boys  all  like  to  : 
Treating  us  as  if  young  ladies 
Were  a  pack  of  rude  boys  also." 


LETTER    TO    J.    W.    B.  51 

So  the  family  in  chorus, 

Sing  good  bye  to  all  the  urchins. 

Next,  the  nephew  down  in  Boston, 
Gently  stirs  his  worthy  uncle 
Up  a  bit,  and  just  reminds  him 
How  next  Wednesday  he  must  enter 
The  great  building  down  in  Boston, 
Building  with  the  round  top  on  it, 
Many  steps  lead  up  unto  it, 
And  the  people  that  are  sent  there 
Are  the  saving  of  the  nation ; 
Sent  there  by  the  votes  of  Freemen  — 
Freemen  of  this  mighty  nation, 
Nation  of  the  ramping  eagles  ; 
Any  fine  day  you  may  see  them 
Sitting  round  there  on  the  stone  steps, 
Munching  on  the  sunny  stone  steps, 
Gingerbread  and  other  fixings, 
Sold  by  various  little  peddlers 
To  the  members  who  have  eagle 
Feathers  in  their  beaver  hat  bands. 

Last,  the  nephew  hopes  the  uncle 
Won't  forget  his  white-haired  nephew, 
White  hair  tumbled  by  the  uncle 
At  the  Golden  Wedding  Pow  Wow 
At  the  farm  house  in  the  hollow. 


52  "'TIS    SWEET   TO    REMEMBER.' 


'TIS  SWEET  TO  REMEMBER." 

'Tis  pleasant  to  recall  the  past, 

And  on  its  scenes  to  dwell ; 
To  think  of  joys  too  bright  to  last, 

Of  friends  once  loved  so  well. 

Oh,  yes,  'tis  sweet  to  call  to  mind 
The  thoughts  of  days  gone  by, 

And  in  the  heart's  own  chaplet  bind 
The  flowers  of  memory. 

So,  too,  'twill  be  in  future  time, 

As  on  life's  waters  flow; 
Oft  will  the  bells  of  memory  chime 

And  tell  of  long  ago ; 

Of  thoughtless  childhood's  merry  hours, 

Its  mirth  encircled  brow; 
No  thorns  are  mingled  with  the  flowers 

That  strew  its  pathway  now  ; 

Of  buoyant  youth  so  wild  and  free, 

Life's  bright,  ideal  age  — 
The  fairest  gift  of  memory 

To  scan  its  sunny  page. 

Perchance,  amid  these  dreams  so  bright, 
A  tear  may  dim  the  eye ; 


"'TIS    SWEET   TO    REMEMBER."  53 

Perchance,  the  veil  of  sorrow's  night 
May  cloud  the  memory. 

As  soft  it  whispers  sad  and  low 

Of  early  friends  and  true, 
To  whom  so  many  years  ago 

We  bade  our  last  adieu. 

And  yet  'tis  dear  when  all  alone 

To  dream  that  they  are  nigh, 
Again  to  hear  the  gentle  tone 

And  see  the  beaming  eye. 

Yes,  memory's  gifts  a  brighter  hue 

O'er  saddened  feelings  cast, 
And  clothe  with  beauty  ever  new 

The  pages  of  the  past. 


Pour  me  out  a  full  cup, 

For  I  swear  I  will  drink  — 

I  am  stronger  than  once, 
You  shall  see  if  I  shrink. 

See  how  steady  my  hand 
Takes  the  red  beaker  up ; 


54  A    CHAPTER    FROM    BACHELOR    REVERIES. 

There  is  laugh  in  my  soul, — 
So  I  laugh  in  the  cup. 

Yes,  I  hear  what  you  say, 
That  she  cares  not  for  me ; 

I  would  give  heaven  for  her  — 
That  will  do  —  do  you  see  ? 

I  suppose  I  may  love, 

Even  her  in  her  hate  ; 
She  will  love  me  at  last  — 

I  am  willing  to  wait. 

Ah,  you  smile  at  the  faith 
That  smiles  so  upon  me; 

I  was  wrong  when  I  drank  ? 
Well,  my  friend, —  we  shall  see. 


A  CHAPTER  FROM  BACHELOR  REVERIES. 

I  drew  my  chair  one  evening  before  the  glowing 

grate, 
And  fell  into  a  musing  mood  —  almost  a  dreaming 

state ; 
And  things,  like  spirits,  flitted  in  the  weird  and 

ruddy  light 


A    CHAPTER    FROM    BACHELOR    REVERIES.  55 

That  danced  about  my  study-wall,  as  darker  grew 
the  night. 

I  mused  on  what  my  life  had  been  in  all  its  lonely 
bliss, 

And  whether  there  would  ever  dawn  a  brighter  day 
than  this  ; 

Whether  another's  smile  would  cheer  the  pilgrim- 
age of  life, 

And  shine  my  pathway  over, — a  gentle,  loving  wife. 

And  thus  I  mused,  as  glimmered  the  firelight  in 
the  gloom, 

Till  very  strange  it  seemed  to  me,  that  quiet 
student-room. 

I  was  walking  in  the  moonlight  —  but  O,  not  now 

alone, — 
My  guarding  arm  was  lovingly  around  a  maiden 

thrown : 
All   silently   we    moved   along   the    silver-painted 

way  — 
Our  hearts  so  full  we  could  not  speak — we  had 

not  what  to  say ; 
But  silence  is  most  eloquent,  when  all  the  world  is 

still, 
Save  the  whispers  in  the  branches  and  the  music 

of  the  rill. 

For  then  in  heavenly  harmony  the  golden  heart- 
bells  toll, 


56  A    CHAPTER    FROM    BACHELOR    REVERIES. 

And  then  in   sweet  communion  is  blending  soul 

with  soul. 
O,  'tis  a  pure  and  holy  thing  —  the  deep  strong 

love  of  youth  — 
When  life  is  like  a  pleasant  dream,  too  beautiful  for 

truth. 
And  as  I  knelt  that  evening,  at  love's  first,  fairest 

shrine, 
She  spoke  not,  but  an  angel  said  "  fear  not,  she  will 

be  thine." 
And   still   the   moon   was   lighting  the  wondrous 

world  above; 
And  soft  she  seemed  to  whisper,  "  moonlight  was 

made  for  love." 

But  lo,  a  change  came  lightly  o'er  the  spirit  of  my 
dream, — 

A  picture  may  not  linger  long,  drawn  in  the  moon's 
pale  beam. 

That  hour  so  fraught  with  hope  and  love  may  come 
again  no  more ; 

Floating  on  manhood's  Ocean,  the  dream  of  youth 
is  o'er. 

But  how  serene  and  beautiful  each  gently  swelling 
wave! 

How  full  of  joy  the  happy  scenes  the  mirrored  sur- 
face gave ! 


A    CHAPTER    FROM    BACHELOR    REVERIES.  57 

'Twas  evening,  and  the  blazing  hearth  sent  out  a 

pleasant  light 
That  danced  about  the  ample  room  and  on  a  merry 

sight. 
And  mirthful  faces  sparkled,  and  sitting  on  my 

knee 
Were  two  sweet  cherub-children,   so  winning   in 

their  glee. 
The   arches   of   the  old   room  rang  with  fun  and 

frolic  wild; 
And  blessed  angels  looked  from  Heaven  on  the 

fair  ones  and  smiled. 
Buoyant    with    life    and    beauty — beaming   with 

laugh  and  song  — 
They  knew  no  thought  of  sadness,  their  life  had 

not  been  long. 
And  on  their  joyous  frolic  —  their  free  and  careless 

grace — 
The  mother  gazed — a  loving  smile  illumining  her 

face; 
As  true  and  faithful  thro'  the  years,  alike  in  weal 

and  woe, 
As  when  I  won  her  girlish  heart,  that  evening  long 

ago. 
O,  'twas  a  clear,  a  steadfast  love,  that  bound  that 

happy  band, 
Such  as  the  guileless  beings  know,  who  haunt  the 

spirit  land. 


58  A    CHAPTER    FROM    BACHELOR    REVERIES. 

And  fervently  I  prayed  that  night,  that  he  would 
guard  them  all, 

Whose  ever-watching  Providence  "lets  not  a  spar- 
row fall." 

This  passed  away  and  once  again  a  change  came 

o'er  my  dream ; 
So,  ruffled  by  the  gentlest  breeze,  will  change  the 

running  stream. 
No  longer  did  the  ringing  laugh  strike  sweetly  on 

the  ear — 
The  evening  frolic  came  no  more,  the  children  were 

not  here. 
The  winter-time  of  life  had  strewn  its  snows  upon 

my  brow, 
The  fleeting  sands  were  nearly  run  —  I  was  an  old 

man  now. 
Alone  I  sat  with  her  who'd  been  so  long  a  trusting 

wife  — 
Who'd  known  with  me  the  joys  of  earth,  who'd 

dared  with  me  its  strife. 
We  talked  of  scenes  in  other  days,  that  pleasant 

shadows  cast, 
And  watched  the  silver  current  roll  back  into  the 

past. 

Then,  strong  in  faith,  we  looked  beyond  the  com- 
ing stream  of  death 


A   CHAPTER    FROM    BACHELOR    REVERIES.  59 

And  knew  that  we  should  live  again,  when  stopped 

our  mortal  breath ; 
And  prayed  that  when  our  life  should  end,  to  us  it 

might  be  given, 
As  we  had  lived  and  loved  on  earth,  to  live  and 

love  in  Heaven. 

A  falling  tear  upon  my  hand  the  fragile  dream- 
spell  broke, 

And,  wishing  life  were  but  a  dream,  all  sadly  I 
awoke. 

That  gentle  one  had  winged  her  flight  back  to  the 
spirit  land ; 

Sweet  fancy's  golden  sway  was  o'er,  broken  her 
magic  wand. 

One  hope  I  breathed,  that,  as  my  dream,  my  life  to 

come,  might  be, — 
A    dream,    without    a    waking    time, — a    bright 

reality. 


60  POEM. 


POEM. 

DELIVERED  AT  THE  SILVER  WEDDING  OF  REV.  JAMES  A.   AND 
MARIA   B.    KENDALL. 

The  place,  a  room  not  over  clean, 

The  time,  twilight  and  dark  between ; 

The  Dramatis  Persona  by 

My  friend  the  Bachelor,  and  I. — 

I  with  a  wife  as  sweet  as  May — 

(Don't  look,  she  isn't  here  to-day) 

He  in  his  one-pronged  cloudy  life, 

A  pipe,  and  cat  and  dog  —  no  wife ; 

I,  bound  to  take  life  with  a  laugh 

And  mix  and  drink  it  half  and  half. 

He  put  his  feet  up  on  the  shelf 

And  snugged  down  in  his  chair  himself ; 

Lighted  a  pipe  —  his  cap  pulled  down, 

And  closer  drew  his  dressing  gown. 

Puffed  out  with  smoke  each  unkissed  cheek, 

And  in  this  wise,  went  on  to  speak : 

"And  so  you're  married  —  what  a  goose, 

Pray  tell  me,  can  you,  what's  the  use? 

Poor  fool !  your  face  is  full  of  creases. 

Your  peace  of  mind  has  gone  to  pieces ; 

You'd  get  out  of  it  if  you  could 

And  be  with  me  and  singlehood ; 


POEM.  6 I 

Alas,  the  hood  has  taken  wings 
You  let  a  woman  cut  the  strings, 
Your  poor  head  now  has  nothing  on  it 
Except  the  shadow  of  a  bonnet, 
See  me  —  feet  up,  head  up  —  all  right  — 
My  own  man,  free  as  an  owl  at  night ; 
On  life's  dry  desert  I'm  a  patch 
Of  green,  a  real  old  happy  Bach. 
My  purring  cat,  my  dog  and  I 
Find  life  made  up  of  all  blue  sky ; 
My  pipe  rounds  off  the  pleasant  joke  — 
Thought  I,  it  ends  it  all  in  smoke. 
But  you,  there  is  no  you ;   I  mean 
The  ashes  of  what  you  have  been  — 
Your  mother'd  hardly  know  for  her  son 
This  echo  of  another  person  — 
You're  trotted  out  to  do  her  shopping  — 
Your  wife  at  all  the  windows  stopping. 
Now  own  up,  do  you  think  that  popping 
The  question  paid  ?  "     He  gave  a  puff 
Suggesting  that  he'd  said  enough. 

Would'st  hear  what  I  said  back  to  him 
As  twilight  grew  more  deep  and  dim  ? 
Perhaps  I  didn't  say  a  word  — 
Perhaps,  the  cat  an  answer  purred  — 
No  matter  —  when  I  went  away 
I  got  a  little  bird  to  stay 


62  POEM. 

And  tell  me  what  the  young  man's  head 
Was  full  of  while  he  was  in  bed. 
Next  morn,  as  daylight  'gan  to  beam, 
He  sang  me  out  the  young  man's  dream. 

The  room  was  gay  with  life  and  light ; 
Fair  women  moving,  robed  in  white  ; 
A  quaint  old  room  that  seemed  to  smile 
On  what  was  going  on  the  while ; 
And  tears  and  laughter,  prayers  and  song 
Were  borne  in  changeful  play  along. 
And  in  the  foreground,  as  he  dreamed, 
The  Bachelor  among  them  seemed. 
A  fair  girl  stood  beside  him  there  — 
And  orange  flowers  were  in  her  hair ; 
Blue  eyes,  down-turned,  and  on  her  face 
The  beauty  of  a  new-born  grace  — 
Tears,  too,  lay  softly  on  her  cheeks 
And  while  they  fall  an  old  man  speaks ; 
The  music  of  the  old  man's  words 
Is  sweeter  than  the  singing  birds. 
Ah,  ha !  what  meant  that  life  and  light  ?  — 
He  dreamed  it  was  his  wedding  night. 

And  so  that  picture  faded  by, 
Another  quite  as  fair  came  nigh. 
He  thought  that  life  had  filled  for  him 
Its  cup  of  gladness  to  the  brim ; 


POEM.  63 

The  way  was  thick  with  flowers  —  a  wife 
Had  drawn  new  beauty  out  of  life. 
Time  had  been  playing  with  his  hair 
And  putting  threads  of  silver  there, 
And  borne  him  with  his  matron-bride, 
Adown  the  ebbing  of  its  tide. 

Once  more  they  stand  with  gentle  friends 
And  heart  to  heart  in  friendship  bends  ; 
Dear  voices  long  unheard  they  hear 
And  catch  the  pleasant  words  of  cheer ; 
And  read  in  notes  of  memory's  pen 
The  stories  of  their  lives  again. 
Ah,  ha  !  his  wings,  our  friend  is  spreading — 
He's  dreaming  of  his  Silver  Wedding. 

That  didn't  wake  him  —  turning  over 
He  went  on  dreaming,  quite  in  clover, 
And  still  another  picture  came, 
A  changed  one,  yet  somehow  the  same. 
An  old  man  now — she  too  is  old, 
Whose  hair  was  once  as  bright  as  gold ; 
For  many  years  have  winged  their  flight, 
Since  Heaven  smiled  on  their  wedding  night. 
"So  many,"  says  he,  "it  doth  seem 
Almost  the  wedding  of  a  dream  ; 
So  long  ago  —  so  much  between 
And  yet  'tis  real,  wife,  I  ween. 


64  POEM. 

We've  lived  long  time  here,  you  and  I, 
And  watched  the  play  of  life  go  by ; 
Sometimes  the  sunlight  in  the  air 
Shook  out  in  love  its  golden  hair, 
And  sometimes  sorrow  was  our  lot 
That  came  in  love,  too,  did  it  not  ? 
So  in  the  sunshine  and  the  shade 
To  us  a  sweet  tune  life  has  played." 

So  this  real  life  of  ours  doth  seem 
Sometimes  a  picture  in  a  dream. 

They  see  kind  faces  in  their  home 

And  hear  sweet  words  of  greeting  come  ; 

Children  and  children's  children  there, 

With  eyes  of  blue  and  golden  hair. 

Again  from  out  the  living  throng 

Come  tears  and  laughter,  prayers  and  song. 

A  fairer,  steadier  light  doth  fall 

In  chastened  beauty  over  all. 

What  star  this  mellow  light  is  shedding  ? 

His  dream  has  reached  its  "  Golden  Wedding. 

His  grand-child  sits  upon  his  knee, 

The  youngest  blossom  of  his  tree. 

She  puts  her  laughing  mouth  to  his 

To  give  and  take  the  expected  kiss. 

And  so  the  Bachelor  awoke 

To  find  his  cat  —  a  kitten's  freak, 

Tapping  her  paw  upon  his  cheek. 


TOASTS.  65 

"  Pshaw  !  what  a  dream  —  get  out  you  cat, 

A  pretty  night's  work  I've  been  at ; 

But  after  all  —  that  fair  ideal, 

I  can't  help  wishing  might  be  real." 

A  tear  dropped  slowly  down  his  cheek  — 

And  that  was  all  —  he  did  not  speak. 

And  so  my  little  bird  stopped  singing 
Just  as  the  breakfast  bell  was  ringing. 


TOASTS 

AT  THE  SILVER  WEDDING  OF  REV.  J.   A.   AND  M.    B.   KENDALL. 

Our  Silver  Wedding  and  the  other  wedding,  it 
commemorates. 

Our  Cousins. —  The  bridesmaids  and  groomsmen 
of  the  Silver  Wedding.  The  best  thing  about  being 
married  is  the  good  company  one  gets  into. 

"  Fuscus  Fiscus" — The  Brown  Basket  —  new  on 
the  4th  of  Nov.  1807  —  it  holds,  to-day,  the  flowers 
of  fifty  years.  Long  life  to  the  Basket  —  it  grows 
dearer  as  it  grows  older. 


66  TOASTS. 

Children. —  The  andirons  of  the  family  hearth. 
Take  them  away  and  the  fire  tumbles  down. 

Single  Blessedness. —  It  won't  do  ;  in  the  game  of 
life,  doublets  win. 

Home. —  The  title  page  of  Life's  Poem. — "  Home 
Sweet  Home." 

The  loved  ones  who  are  absent  and  the  memory 
of  the  dead. 

Our  White-haired  Pilgrim-Father. —  From  his 
home  by  Plymouth  Rock  he  sends  his  blessing. 

Family  Trees. —  The  best  thing  for  the  old  stock 
is  a  good  graft. 

"A  Bridal  Pair'' — The  handsomest  fruit  in  the 
orchard. 

The  Religion  of  the  Fireside. —  Heaven's  own 
sunshine  rests  on  the  "Altar  at  Home." 

Household  Words. —  Speak  them  softly. 

The  next  Silver  Wedding. —  Bride  and  Bride- 
groom make  merry  in  it, —  and  may  a  ray  or  two  of 
ours  to-day,  float  down  and  meet  its  silver  beams. 

The  Wedding  Ring. —  Sung  by  the  assembly. 


POEM.  67 


POEM. 

DELIVERED  AT  THE  GOLDED  WEDDING  OF  COL.   JAMES  AND  NANCY 
BROWN,   NOV.   4,    1857, 

To-day,  dear  friends,  sweet  voices  seem 
To  breathe  a  sound  of  singing, — 

From  field  and  forest,  hill  and  stream 
A  wedding  welcome  bringing. 

A  song  of  fifty  years  they  send 

To  crown  our  happy  meeting, 
And  with  the  song  the  voices  blend 

Their  "  Golden  Wedding  "  greeting. 

They  hail  the  givers  of  the  feast, — 
Whose  wedded  love  is  shining, 

Although  their  sun  has  left  its  East, 
And  daylight  is  declining. 

The  voices  murmur  soft  and  low 

Of  Father  and  of  Mother, 
Whom,  in  the  solemn  long  ago, 

God  gave  to  love  each  other. 

They  welcome  home  each  wandering  child, 

From  daily  work  beguiling; 
The  scenes  that  first  around  them  smiled, 

The  same  to-day  are  smiling. 


68  POEM. 

But  with  them  comes  not  one  sweet  face,- 
The  voices  have  not  brought  her, — 

There's  room  beside  the  children's  place 
For  one  more  darling  daughter. 

Faith  whispers,  "  that  dear  one  is  here, 

A  spirit-presence  given, 
In  shining  garments  doubly  dear  — 

The  child  of  Earth  and  Heaven." 

She  taketh  by  the  hand  each  friend, 
Her  pure  delight  confessing, 

And  bids  upon  her  home  descend 
An  angel  daughter's  blessing. 

And  one  from  out  the  prairied  West 

Withholdeth  her  assistance. 
Oh  no  !  she's  standing  with  the  rest : 

The  soul  forgetteth  distance. 

And  on  the  children's  children  falls 

The  Wedding  salutation  ; 
The  welcome  of  the  voices  calls 

For  their  congratulation. 

We  place  upon  the  household  shrine 
The  flowers  of  our  thanksgiving : 

O,  may  the  garland  we  entwine 
Be  always  fresh  and  living ! 


POEM.  69 

And  we,  too,  miss  familiar  forms, 
That  once  with  love  were  beaming; 

But  Faith  again  our  bosom  warms, 
And  says,  "'tis  only  seeming." 

From  hearts  that  with  remembrance  burn, 

Dear  friends  are  absent  never; 
The  buried  ones  with  us  return  — 

More  beautiful  than  ever. 

The  last  loved  one,  that  died  in  June, 

Our  perfect  circle  roundeth ; 
And  like  the  breath  of  some  sweet  tune, 

Her  gentle  greeting  soundeth. 

Grandchildren,  children,  wanting  none, 

All  gather  to  caress  us ; 
And  Heaven's  approval  must  be  won, 

If  angels  come  to  bless  us. 

Of  brothers  and  of  sisters,  three 

Alone  are  with  the  living ; 
And  two  of  them  'tis  ours  to  see, 

Their  cordial  presence  giving. 

And  now  a  welcome  meets  once  more 

The  few  friends,  that  remember 
The  Wednesday,  fifty  years  before 

The  fourth  of  this  November. 


70  POEM. 

The  bridesmaids  of  that  wedding  day 
Our  bridesmaids  shall  be  reckoned ; 

They  graced  ihejirsi,  and  surely  they 
Will  smile  upon  the  second. 

We  greet  the  girl, —  too  young  to  see 
The  bride  and  bridegroom  married  ;  — 

But  now,  as  then,  by  her  the  tea 
And  sugar  shall  be  carried. 

The  house  its  doors  flings  open  wide 

To  its  assembled  cousins  : 
And  takes  a  good,  old-fashioned  pride 

In  all  these  loving  dozens. 

The  sunshine  of  their  glad  array 

Its  loyal  heart  rejoices; 
And  welcome  is  the  friendly  play 

Of  faces  and  of  voices. 

But  one  face  more  it  hoped  might  be 

In  all  our  merry-making  ; 
It  yearned  one  other  guest  to  see 

The  marriage-feast  partaking. 

The  snows  of  almost  ninety  years 
His  silvery  hairs  have  sprinkled, 

But  fresh  and  green,  through  smiles  and  tears, 
The  soul  has  come  unwrinkled. 


POEM.  7  I 

He  might  not  speak  with  us  the  prayer, 

To  God's  dear  love  appealing, 
And  yet  our  wedding-day  shall  share 

His  tender  thought  and  feeling. 

And  so,  dear  friends,  the  voices  seem 
Their  song-light  to  be  shedding  ; 

And  field  and  forest,  hill  and  stream, 
To  hail  our  Golden  Wedding. 

And  if  you'll  walk  awhile  with  me, 

By  brook  and  meadow  olden, 
We'll  find  out  how  it  came  to  be, 

And  what  has  made  it,  "golden." 

The  Summer  had  ended  its  beautiful  song, 

Of  the  nights  that  are  rare,  and  the  days  that  are 

long: 
It  had  wrought  out  its  work,  in  the  warmth  of  its 

sun ; 
It  had  died  with  its  flowers,  when  its  work-day  was 

done : 

The  footsteps  of  Autumn  were  treading  the  plain, 
And  the  fields  were  astir  with  the  life  of  the  grain ! 
A  new  love  in  river  and  woodland  was  born, 
As  the  breath  of  the  wind  went  a-wooing  the  corn. 
But  the  scenes  we  look    out  on  were  wondering 

then 
At  the  clangor  of  hammers  and  bustling  of  men ; 


72  POEM. 

For  I  tell  you  a  tale  of  the  days  that  have  been, 
And  how  they  were  building  the  house  we  are  in. 

A  young  man  was  standing  the  workmen  beside, 
As  the  hammers  and  mallets  were  busily  plied ; 
O,  the  sound  of  their  ringing  was  sweet  to  his  ear, 
For  the  blows  helped  to  fashion  a  home  for  him 

here. 

He  had  chosen  the  timbers,  all  solid  and  strong; 
Did  he  know  he  should  want  them  to  stand  by  him 

long  ? 
He  had  watched  o'er  the  work,  every  day,  as  it 

grew, 
To  be  sure  that  the  workmen  were  thorough  and 

true  ; 

O,  how  or  of  beauty  or  strength  could  it  fail, 
When  the  heart  helped  the  hammer  drive  in  every 

nail  ? 

Now  the  fair  house  was  standing  in  perfected  form, 
To  smile  in  the  sunshine,  or  laugh  at  the  storm  ; 
And  the  heart  of  the  lover  was  leaping  with  glee, 
For   he   thought   of   his   bride,   that    its    mistress 

should  be. 

And  so,  when  the  fruitage  of  Autumn  was  in, 
When  the  nights  to  be  frosty  and  longer  begin  ; 
When   the  corn  had   been  garnered   in   plentiful 

store, 


POEM.  73 

And  was  heaped  for  the  husking  along  the  barn- 
floor ; 

When  the  Indian  Summer  had  borrowed  the  dress 
Of  days  that  were  over,  the  Autumn  to  bless, — 
The  young  man  remembered  the  home  of  his  pride, 
And  bore  to  its  threshold  his  beautiful  bride ; 
And,  as  blushing  she  crossed  it,  there  fell  on  her  ear 
The  song  of  the  voices  that  welcome  us  here. 

That  night,  as  they  sat   in   the  firelight, —  those 

two, — 
And  planned  for  the  future  the  work  they  would 

do, 

What  if  some  little  goblin  had  chanced  to  come  in, 
(They  do  say,  that  such  creatures  as  goblins  have 

been,) 

And,  in  his  own  queer  sort  of  goblinish  way, 
Just  hinted  at  what  would  befall  them  to-day  : 
What  a  laugh  they  'd  have  had  at  his  impudent 

hints, — 
That  skeptical  couple  of  fifty  years  since ! 

Suppose  he  had  told  them  to  put  in  a  pot 
More  or  less  of  cold  water  and  heat  it  up  hot ; 
And,  like  so  many  oxen,  to  yoke  in  the  steam, 
And  they  'd  presently  have  no  end  of  a  team ; 
And  that,  some  day  or  other,  right  by  the  back- 
door, 


74  POEM. 

Such  a  team  would  come  trotting,  like  lightning, 

—  or  slower : 
To  his  goblinship  then,  what  d'  ye  think  they'd 

have  done 

For  poking  at  people,  just  married,  such  fun? 
Or  if  he'd  suggested,  when  grass  was  to  mow 
That  a  man  with  a  scythe  was  tremendously 

"slow;"— 
That  two  horses  would  move  round  a  field,  by  and 

by, 

And  cut  down  the  acres  as  true  as  a  die  ;  — 
The  comical  imp  would  have  had  to  "make  tracks  " 
Up  the  chimney,  or  hide  in  the  neighboring  cracks, 
For  they  wouldn't  have  stood  it,  I'm  sure,  any  more, 
Or  to  such  a  wild  talker  have  yielded  the  "floor." 

Now,  if,  as  they  sat  there,  some  spirit  did  try 
To  make  them  believe  what  would  be  by  and  by, 
And  they  happened  to  treat  him  in  any  ill  way, — 
Ought  they  not  to  apologize  to  him  to-day? 
But  we  have  no  right  to  give  them  any  hints, 
How  they  should  have  done,  half  a  century  since, 
The  goblins,  we  laugh  at  with  our  common  sense, 
May  turn  upon  us,  half  a  century  hence. 

And  so  they  had  armed  them  to  battle  with  life  ;  — 
The  bride  and  the  bridegroom  were  husband  and 
wife ; 


POEM.  75 

Their  life-boat  \vas  launched  on  the  turbulent  wave; 
Will  the  hemlsman  be  skilful  to  guide  and  to  save  ? 
There'll  be  breakers  to  buffet  and  tempests  to  fight, 
When  the  starlight  is  sleeping  in  clouds  and  in 

night : 

And  doubt  and  desponding  will  darken  the  soul, 
As  the  sea  bears  them  on  in  its  merciless  roll. 
But  be  of  good  courage,  the  darkness  forget, 
For  with  love  at  the  helm,  you  shall  weather  it  yet ! 

I  should  like  to  drop  in  on  their  Honey-moon  days, 
And  look  up  a  little  their  Honey-moon  ways;  — 
I  wonder  if  they  started  off  on  a  jaunt 
To  any  delightfully  popular  haunt, — 
To  see  how  many  miles  in  a  month  they  could  ride, 
With  one  trunk  for  the  bridegroom,  and  ten  for  the 
bride. 

What  an  insult  to  bees,  to  call  this  a  Honeymoon  ! 
'T would  be  much  more  appropriate  to  call  it  a 

money-moon  ; 

It  has  none  of  the  bee,  it  would  seem  to  outsiders, 
Except  the  "fo^-w-tiful"  dresses  the  bride  has. 
I  don't  believe  Grandpa  and  Grandma  would  be 
For  the  honey-moon  shine  of  any  such  spree ; 
But  when  their  connubial  lamp  had  been  lighted, 
I  think,  (I'm  not  sure,  for  I  wasn't  invited,) 
They  quietly  rode  in  an  old-fashioned  chaise 
And  "put  up"  at  home  for  the  Honey-moon  days. 


76  POEM. 

Alone  with  each  other,  each  bending  to  share 
The  burden  that  fell  to  the  other  to  bear  — 
He  come  from  the  stock  of  the  sturdy  and  strong, 
Who  have  shrined  our  New  England  in  story  and 

song; 

Whose  father  at  Lexington  Common  had  fought 
With  the  men  who  would  die,  but  who  could  not  be 

bought ; 
And  who  from   the  air,  with   his  first  breathing, 

drew 

A  strong  Saxon  courage,  to  will  and  to  do ;  — 
And  she,  in  the  blossoming  summer  of  life, 
Unlearned  in  its  wisdom,  untried  in  its  strife  — 
Her  face  written  over,  in  letters  of  truth, 
With  womanly  purity,  beauty  and  youth, — 
Both  taking  upon  them  true  laborers'  parts, 
They   moved    towards    the   future   with    resolute 

hearts  ; 

And  they  looked  to  the  light  of  the  stars  overhead 
To  illumine  the  path  they  had  chosen  to  tread. 

O'er  the   path   of   the   farmer  that    starlight   has 

played, 
As  it  ran  in  its  windings   through  sunshine  and 

shade. 

O,  the  life  of  the  farmer  !  —  their  life  for  so  long — 
It  has  crowned  them  with  blessings, —  O  give  it  a 

song! 


POEM.  77 

'Tis  the  life  of  the  greenwood,   the  meadow  and 

brook ;  — 

'Tis  written  in  nature's  own  writing  and  book;  — 
'Tis  the  life  of  the  simple,  the  honest,  and  true ;  — 
'Tis  as  fair  as  the  morning,  as  fresh  as  its  dew ; 
And  the  pictures,  that   hang  on   its  leaf-covered 

walls, 

Are  as  rich  as  the  sunlight  that  over  them  falls ; 
"Length  of  days,  in  its  right  hand,"  it  holdeth,  to 

live, 

And  "riches  and  honor,  its  left  hand"  will  give : 
To  the  farmer  that  loves  it,  it  teaches  in  turn 
The  lessons  of  wisdom  he  liveth  to  learn ; 
And  Summer  and  Winter  and  Autumn  and  Spring 
Their  tributes  of  love  to  his  industry  bring. 
The  seed-time  is  dear  to  his  provident  heart, 
As  he  fills  in  the  furrows  with  delicate  art ; 
For  he  knows  the  good  God  will  look  down  on  his 

need 

And  waken  the  harvest,  that  sleeps  in  the  seed : 
And  the  gladness  within  him,  if  spoken,  would  sing, 
That  the  life  of  the  farmer  is  fair  in  the  Spring. 

But  the  soft  wind  of  Summer  is  fanning  his  brow, 
And  the  beauty  of  Summer  is  bounding  him  now  ; 
His  soul  is  awake  to  the  life  of  the  scene, — 
To  the  song  of  the  birds,  and  the  wealth  of  the 
green, 


78  POEM. 

The  haymakers,  out  at  the  peeping  of  dawn, 
Away  through  the  dew  to  the  mowing  have  gone ; 
And  stout  wagon-loads  of  the  sweet-smelling  hay 
Come  creaking  along  at  the  close  of  the  clay. 
The  farmer  looks  in  on  the  generous  store, 
And  he  sends  up  a  prayer,  as  he  turns  from-  the 

door. 

O,  the  husbandman  loveth  the  warm  Summer  time, 
When  Earth  seems'to  whisper  her  secrets  in  rhyme. 

But  what  are  the  blessings  the  ripe  Autumn  yields  ? 
Go,  ask  of  the  beauty,  that  filleth  the  fields  ;  — 
Of  the  tassels,  that  play  in  the  wave  of  the  grain  : 
They  will  give  you  an  answer  to  heart  and  to  brain. 
Or,  hark  if  you  will,  to  the  song  of  the  corn, 
As  it  rustles  at  evening,  or  bathes  in  the  morn  ;  — 
Or  listen  again  to  the  strains,  as  they  come, 
Of  the  harvesters  singing  the  glad  harvest-home  ; — 
For  this  is  why  Autumn  the  farmer's  heart  charms, 
And  these  are  the  blessings  it  bears  in  its  arms. 

But  Winter  is  hard  for  the  farmer,  at  least  ? 

Ah  !  what  will  you  say  of  the  Christmas-time  feast, 

When  the  bountiful   weight  of   the   Winter-days' 

hoard 

Is  playfully  crushing  the  plentiful  board  ? 
Or  is  there  not  something  to  cheer  and  inspire, 
In  the  glow  and  the  gleam  of  a  great  open  fire  ? 


POEM. 


79 


That  crackle  and  sparkle  my  heart  will  remember, 
As  long  as  there  is  such  a  month  as  December. 
But  if  you  still  think,  that  the  time's  melancholic, 
The  husking  bids  come  to  its  corn-colored  frolic ; 
Where  each  rosy  girl  and  the  lover  beside  her 
Are  busily  chatting  on  apples  and  cider. 
"  Oh  no,"  says  the  farmer,  "  'tis  well  on  my  farm — 
My  house  and  my  barns  and  my  cattle  are  warm, 
God  is  here  in  the  Winter  —  his  child  is  content ;" 
And  in  prayer  of  thanksgiving  his  bared  head  is 
bent. 

I  thank  God  for  the  farmer's  great  heart  and  hard 

hand ; 

There  is  no  truer  nobleman  lives  in  the  land : 
He  is  hardy  and  brown  with  the  tanning  of  toil ; 
He  has  breathed  better  life  from  the  smell  of  the 

soil. 
He's  above  the  world's  cheats  and  the  tricks  of  its 

trade, 
On  "the  broad  stone  of  honor"  his  firm  feet  are 

stayed. 

The  stuff  he  is  made  of,  New  England  can  tell, — 
'Tis  writ  in  the  freedom  he's  guarded  so  well ; 
And  if  foes  or  if  faction  e'er  threat  to  o'erwhelm, 
I  have  faith  in  the  farmer  to  bear  up  the  helm. 
And  so,  when  the  wings  of  misfortune  are  heard, 


8o  POEM. 

And  the  air,  as  it  thickens,  with  wailings  is  stirred, 
He  bows  him  with  meekness  and  kisses  the  rod, 
For  the  strength  that  is  in  him  is  trust  in  his  God. 

I  thank  God  for  the  wife  of  the  farmer,  to-day, — 
Of  his  house  and  his  heart,  the  delight  and  the 

stay; 

For  on  her  the  mantle  of  virtue  doth  fall, 
And  a  virtuous  woman  "excelleth  them  all." 
A  wife  and  companion,  to  counsel  and  cheer  — 
'Tis  the  morning  that   scatters   the   mists  of  our 

fear; 

And  she,  too,  is  busy  with  work  of  her  own, — 
The  queen  of  her  dairy,  she  reigneth  alone. 
See,    how   from    the    churn    the    rich    butter-milk 

drops ! 
See   the  sweet,  golden    butter,  you  can't  buy  in 

shops ! 

O,  a  song  to  the  farmer,  a  song  to  his  wife, 
And  a  song  out  of  love  for  the  husbandman's  life ! 
For  these  dear  ones  the  life  of  the  farmer  have 

led  — 

The  half-century  path,  and  the  stars  overhead ;  — 
And  this  was  before  them,  when  starting  alone 
They  moved  down  the  future  to  make  it  their  own. 

Time  passed,  and  the  sunshine  had  kissed  off  the 
dew, 


POEM.  8 1 

And  the  laughter  of  children  the  house  had  rung 

through. 
The   morning   went   by,    and    the    children   were 

grown, 
They  had  gone  from  the  homestead  to  homes  of 

their  own ; 
And  when  back  to  the  haunts  they  had  left,  they 

would  come, 
Little  children  came  with  them  to  Grandfather's 

home. 

To  Grandfathers  and  Grandmothers  drink  a  deep 

health ! 

To  the  love  that  they  give,  in  its  infinite  wealth ; 
It  has  made  farm  and  farm-house  to  us  children 

seem 

Like  the  houses  we  build  in  a  beautiful  dream. 
We've  sat  on  their  knee,  and  they've  shown  us  the 

paces 

Of  Grandfather's  horse,  in  his  Sabbath-day  traces ; 
We've  rummaged  the  house  from  down  stairs  to  up 

garret, — 

Can  any  one  tell  how  the  dear  souls  could  bear  it  ? 
We've  raced  through  the  barn  and  have  played  on 

the  hay, 
And  the  weeks  have  been  only  one  long  holiday. 


82  POEM. 

Dear  children,  I  promise  for  your  hearts  and  mine, 
We'll  keep  them    immortal  —  those   days   o'   lang 
syne. 

The  nightfall  was  coming  —  again  they're  alone, 
That  future's  behind  them  —  they've  made  it  their 

own; 

They  sit,  as  they  sat  in  the  Honey-moon  days, 
And  watch  the  old  pictures  come  out  of  the  blaze, — 
And  ask,  as  their  faces  are  warm  in  the  gleam, 
If  the  life  they  have  lived  can  be  more  than   a 

dream  ? 

Old  friends  and  old  feelings  are  with  them  again, — 
They  welcome  them  now,  for  they  cherished  them 

then; 
And  from  far,  as  they  look  down  on  the  star-lighted 

track, 

The  years  of  the  by-gone  move  solemnly  back. 
And  what  is  the  record  that  comes  with  the  years  ? 
Is  it  written  in  smiles,  or  all  blotted  with  tears  ? 
Does  the  angel  that  bears  it  look  frowningly  down  ? 
Or  comes  he  with  laurel  to  weave  them  a  crown  ? 
The  hand-writing  is   clear,  and  the  angel  comes 

down, 
And  out  from  the  laurel  he  weaveth  a  crown. 

From  the  wedding  of  youth,  to  the  wedding  of  age, 
'Tis  an  unsullied  record  illumines  the  page. 


POEM.  83 

It  is  written  thereon,  how  a  husband's  brave  arm 

Has  always  encircled  to  shelter  from  harm ; 

How  it  held  the  young  wife,  when  the  vigor  of 

health 

Was  blessing  their  home  with  unspeakable  wealth  ; 
And  how  'twas  drawn  closer,  when  sickness  and 

pain 

Were  wasting  the  body  and  wearing  the  brain. 
The  page  of  the  record  is  shining  and  fair, 
With  his  tender,  ay,  womanly,  nurture  and  care. 

It  is  writ  in  the  book,  of  a  wife  that  has  stood 
In  her  purity  by  him,  in  evil  and  good ; 
Who  gave  him  her  love  from  a  gathering  store, — 
(True  love,  as  it  giveth,  receiveth  the  more  — ) 
And  the  smile  of  whose  cheering  unfailingly  brought 
A  smooth  brow  from  the  wrinkles  of  labor  and 

thought. 

No  wonder,  the  angel  comes  down  from  the  blue, 
To  crown  with  his  laurels  the  wives  that  are  true. 

Of  Father  and  Mother  'tis  written  therein, 

How  constant  their  watching  and  helping   have 

been. 

As  the  children  remember  the  dear  long  ago, 
The  tears  of  their  thankfulness  silently  flow ; 
'Tis  to  bless  them  they  stand  by  the  altar  to-day, 
Where  their  baby-lips  learned  with  their  parents 

to  pray. 


84  POEM. 

Once  more  with  the  book  the  kind  angel  descends, — 

And  thus  the  long  record  of  fifty  years  ends ; 

"  Each  walked  by  the  conscience  that  speaks  in  the 

breast, 

Each  meekly  the  weakness  of  mortals  confessed, — 
Uprightly  the  highway  of  duty  they  trod, 
With  the  honor  of  men,  and  the  favor  of  God ; 
Good  Christians,  good  parents,  good  husband  and 

wife, 
Good  friends  and  good   neighbors:"  —  the  record 

of  life. 

So  twilight  is  nearing;  the  gold  in  the  west 
Betokens  the  sunset,  that  bringeth  the  rest, 
The  beautiful  cloud-tints,  that  redden  the  sky, 
Are  kissing  the  daylight,  that  cometh  to  die. 
On  the  stillness  of  evening,  o'er  morning  and  noon, 
Is  borne  us  in  echo  an  old  wedding-tune. 
Of  sense  and  of  feeling  it  taketh  dear  hold, 
The  tune  is  so  old,  —  half  a  century  old. 
But  hark !  as  we  listen,  a  holier  hymn 
Fills  the  cup  of  the  ear  and  the  heart  to  the  brim ; 
A  new  tune  is  blending  its  strain  with  the  olden, — 
The  old  wedding  lives  in  a  new  one  and  golden. 

May  the  festival  light  of  the  wedding  to-day 
Long  linger  to  gladden  your  westering  way. 
May  its  memories  kindle  your  youth-time  anew, 


ODE.  85 

And  help  for  the  work  that  remaineth  to  do. 

And  when  the  last  grains  down  the  life-glass  have 

run, 
May  you  hear  the  sweet  words  of  God's  greeting — 

"  Well-done !" 


ODE. 

TUNE. AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Come  back  our  festival  to  grace, 

Ye  pleasant  days  of  yore, 
And  bring  the  blessing  of  the  face 

The  old  time  wore. 

Chorus. — The  dear  old  time  that's  dead, 

The  dear  old  time ; — 
'Tis  living  in  its  children  yet  — 
The  dear  old  time. 

It  held  us  in  its  arms  and  taught 

The  lesson  of  the  years, 
And  mingled,  with  the  smiles  it  brought, 

The  old  time's  tears. — Cho. 

Through  fifty  years  of  loving  life, 
We  hear  the  wedding  bells; 


86  EVERMORE. 

Of  bridegroom,  husband,  bride  and  wife, 
The  old  time  tells. — Cho. 

The  friends,  who  made  our  being  bright, 
The  dear  ones  with  the  dead, — 

To-day  we  see  them,  by  the  light 
The  old  time  shed. — Cho. 

A  blessing  on  this  friend  of  ours, 

So  gentle  and  so  brave ! 
We'll  cover  tenderly  with  flowers 

The  old  time's  grave. — Cho. 

And  O,  may  angels  guard,  as  we 
The  darkening  hill-side  climb, 

And  hold  us  safe,  when  this  shall  be 
The  dear  old  time. 

Cho. — The  dear  old  time  that's  dead, 

The  dear  old  time ;  — 
And  hold  us  safe,  when  this  shall  be 
The  dear  old  time. 


EVERMORE. 

I  beheld  a  golden  portal  in  the  visions  of  my  slum- 
ber, 
And  through  it  streamed  the  radiance  of  a  never- 

pnHino"  rlav  : 


ending  day ; 


EVERMORE.  87 

While  angels,  tall  and  beautiful  and  countless  with- 
out number, 
Were  giving  gladsome  greeting  to  all  who  camt 

that  way. 
And  the  gate,  forever  swinging,  made  no  grating, 

no  harsh  ringing, 

Melodious  as  the  singing  of  one  that  we  adore ; 
And  I  heard  a  chorus  swelling,  grand  beyond  a 

mortal's  telling, 

And  the  burden  of  the  chorus  was  Hope's  glad 
word  Evermore. 

And,  as  I  gazed  and  listened,  came  a  slave  all  worn 

and  weary  — 
His   fetter-links   blood-crusted,    his   dark    brow 

clammy  damp; 
His  sunken  eyes  gleamed  wildly,  telling  tales  of 

horror  dreary  — 
Of  toilsome  wanderings  thro'  the  night,  amid  the 

fever  swamp. 
Ere  the  eye  had  time  for  winking,  ere  the  mind  had 

time  for  thinking, 
A  bright  angel  raised  the  drooping  wretch  and 

off  his  fetters  tore. 
Then  I  heard  the  chorus  swelling,  grand  beyond  a 

mortal's  telling: 

"  Pass,  brother,  thro'  our  portal  —  thou  'rt  a  free- 
man Evermore" 


88  EVERMORE. 

And,  as  I  gazed  and  listened,  came  one  whom  deso- 
lation 
Had  driven  like  a  helmless  bark  from  infancy's 

bright  land ; 
Who  ne'er  had  met  a  kindly  look  —  poor  outcast  of 

creation, — 
Who  ne'er  had  heard  a  kindly  word,  nor  grasped  a 

kindly  hand : 
"  Enter  in, —  no  longer  fear  thee,  myriad  friends 

are  there  to  cheer  thee, 

Friends  always  to  be  near  thee  —  there  no  sor- 
row sad  and  sore." 
Then  I  heard  the  chorus  swelling,  grand  beyond  a 

mortal's  telling : 

"Enter,  brother  —  thine  are  friendship,  love  and 
gladness  Evermore'' 

And,  as  I  gazed  and  listened,  came  a  woman  wildly 

weeping  — 
"  I  have  lost  my  hopes  forever,  one  by  one  they 

went  away ; 
My  children  and  their  father  are  in  the  cold  grave's 

keeping, 
Life  is  one  long  lamentation,  I  know  nor  night 

nor  day." 
Then  the  angel  softly  speaking :  "  stay  sister,  stay 

thy  shrieking, 


EVERMORE.  89 

Thou  shalt  find  those  thou  art  seeking  beyond 

that  golden  door." 
Then  I  heard  the  chorus  swelling,  grand  beyond  a 

mortal's  telling: 

"  Thy  children  and  their  father  shall  be  with  thee 
Evermore!' 

And,  as  I  gazed  and  listened,  came  a  cold,  blue- 
footed  maiden, 
With  cheeks  of  ashen  whiteness,  eyes  rilled  with 

lurid  light ; 

Her  body  bent  with  sickness,  her  lone  heart  heavy- 
laden  ; 
Her  home  had  been  the  roofless  street,  her  day 

had  been  the  night. 
First  wept  the  angel  sadly,  then  smiled  the  angel 

gladly, 
And  caught  the  maiden  madly  rushing  from  the 

golden  door. 
Then  I   heard  the  chorus  swelling,  grand  beyond 

a  mortal's  telling : 

"  Enter  sister,  thou  art  pure  and  thou  art  sinless 
Evermore" 

I  saw  the  toiler  enter  into  rest,  for  aye  from  labor, 
The  weary-hearted  exile  there  found  his  native 

land ; 
The   beggar   there   might   greet  the  king,  as  an 

equal  and  a  neighbor, 


90  IN    MEMORY    OF    F.    W. 

The  crown  had  left  the  kingly  brow,  the  staff  the 

beggar's  hand. 
And  the  gate,  forever  swinging,  made  no  grating, 

no  harsh  ringing, 

Melodious  as  the  singing  of  one  that  we  adore ; 
And  the  chorus  still  was  swelling,  grand  beyond  a 

mortal's  telling, 

While  the  vision  faded  from  me  with  the  glad 
word  Evermore. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  F.  W. 

TO  E.   A,   W. 

My  soul  is  sad,  O  friend ; 

Have  you  a  sad  soul,  too  ? 
Yet  sweet  thoughts  with  my  sad  ones  blend 

May  sweet  thoughts  come  to  you. 

I  think  of  him  who  died, 

In  life  and  love  so  dear; 
I  see  a  sweet  face  at  my  side 

To-day  of  all  the  year. 

And  when  /  think,  my  heart 
Is  cold  with  fear  and  doubt ; 


IN    MEMORY    OF    F.    W.  91 

But  when  /  see,  the  gray  clouds  part  — 
The  smiling  heavens  look  out. 

This  birthday,  I  would  bend 

My  spirit  o'er  his  grave : 
Come  with  me  where  the  shadows  blend 

And  swaying  branches  wave. 

A  Sabbath  night  before, 

We  came  not  long  ago, — 
And  then  the  sunny  flowers  you  bore 

Were  woven  in  the  snow. 

So,  on  the  Winter  hours, 

You  wrought  a  Summer  spell ; 
Knew  you  that  angels  love  the  flowers 

They  loved  before  so  well  ? 

The  snow  has  taken  wing, 

The  birds  and  buds  are  seen ; 
And  waking  to  the  life  of  Spring 

The  grass  is  growing  green. 

With  smile  and  leaf  and  song 

The  summer  cometh  near  : 
Ah,  do  you  not  look  up  and  long 

For  Summer's  beauty  here  ? 

He  loved  the  life  and  play 
Of  singing  birds  and  flowers  ; 


92  IN    MEMORY    OF    F.    W. 

It  was  as  if  a  Summer's  day 
Was  made  of  golden  hours. 

How  happy  we  have  been 

In  wood  and  walk  and  stream  ! 

We  drank  full  draughts  of  dear  life  in 
That  broken  Summer  dream. 

Were  ever  skies  so  fair, 

Or  ever  dreams  so  dear  ? 
The  yellow  sunshine  held  us  there  — 

The  sad  stars  only  here. 

Those  dreams  and  rosy  skies 

Will  come  not  as  before, 
Under  the  stars  a  new  grave  lies 

And  shadows  evermore. 

Oh  no  !  a  low  sweet  song, 

The  soft  air  seems  to  fill, 
That  murmurs  as  it  floats  along, 

"  I  love  the  Summer  still. 

The  beauty  of  the  flowers, 

The  singing  of  the  bough, 
The  dreams  that  filled  the  happy  hours 

Light  up  my  spirit  now. 

Of  love's  full  cup  I  drink  — 
Dear  ones  still  dearer  hold  ;  — 


IN    MEMORY   OF    F.    W.  93 

I  do  not  miss  one  shining  link 
Of  friendship's  chain  of  gold. 

I  never  knew  the  charms 

Of  home  so  fair  before, — 
For  now  it  folds  me  in  its  arms 

And  whispers  '  Evermore.' 

I  see  each  gentle  face 

That  on  my  young  life  smiled, 
And  made  me  cling  so  to  the  place 

I  played  in  as  a  child. 

I  love  there  best  to  be, 

Safe  in  my  own  dear  home ; 
Though  eye  of  none  my  face  can  see, 

And  no  ear  hear  me  come. 

And  when  your  souls  are  bowed 

In  silent  thought  and  prayer, 
And  you  have  left  the  weary  crowd, 

Do  you  not  feel  me  there  ? 

When  life  is  full  of  fears 

And  sings  a  heavy  song, 
My  love  shall  smile  away  your  tears 

And  make  your  spirit  strong. 

Sometimes  the  end  seems  far, 
And  night  shuts  in  the  way ; 


94  IN   MEMORY   OF    F.    W. 

Look  up,  for  I  will  be  the  star 
That  leadeth  to  the  day. 

The  Father  wills,  that  so 

My  life  to  yours  be  given : 
So  I  may  guard  you  as  you  go, 

So  welcome  you  to  Heaven. 

Then  say  not  that  the  dreams 
Of  Summer  come  not  more ; 

For  I  would  have  the  woods  and  streams 
Seem  brighter  than  before. 

Oh,  will  not  happy  days 

Come  back  again  to  you, 
If  when  the  light  about  you  plays 

It  makes  me  happy,  too?" 

Hear  you  the  low  sweet  song 

That  filleth  ear  and  air  ? 
Will  it  not  make  your  soul  more  strong, 

The  world's  cold  winds  to  bear  ? 

My  soul  was  sad,  O  friend ; 

Was  not  your  soul  sad,  too  ? 
In  sweet  thoughts  now  my  sad  ones  end : 

God  make  it  so  with  you. 

CAMBRIDGE,  April  2Oth,  1858. 


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